Listen, I’m sprawled in my bathtub, pruning like a philosophical raisin, and the world’s out there doing its best impression of a five-alarm dumpster fire. Bubbles are popping, my lavender bath bomb is fizzing out like my last shred of motivation, and my brain’s serving up a word salad that’d make a surrealist poet jealous. Mental block? More like mental barricade. I’m ruminating, marinating, and frankly, just plain tating in this tub, wishing words would knit themselves into something clever. Spoiler: they’re not cooperating.

So, I doomscroll X—sorry, Twitter, because I’m a rebel stuck in 2020 and it’s the usual circus. Politicians yelling, memes multiplying like roaches, and some guy I went to high school with is now on CNN, pontificating about geopolitics. Like, dude, I remember you eating glue in third period. How are you the expert now? Random? Sure. But life’s just a pinata of weird connections, and I’m swinging blindfolded. Actually, he’s quite cool. I said all that because my brain is on fire. He didn’t eat glue. I swear.

The news is a fever dream. Wars, floods, and some celebrity drama about a stolen yacht because priorities, right? It’s all so loud, so urgent, but here I am, whispering to my rubber duck about existential dread. Big thoughts: Why are we here? Is humanity just cosmic improv gone wrong? Little thoughts: Did I leave the oven on? I might have. Or better yet. When I toasted my bagel, I might have turned off the stove. Turned off? No. Disconnected. Why do my toes look like sad little sausages? My brain’s a pinball machine, and I’m losing the game.

I’m tired. Big day. Saved a vertical from spiraling, dodged a Karen in the coffee shop, and somehow didn’t cry when my Wi-Fi crapped out mid-Zoom. But the world keeps spinning, and I keep soaking, hoping the hot water will melt this writer’s block like a cheap candle. Maybe it’s not about finding the perfect words. Maybe it’s about admitting we’re all just splashing around in our own tubs, trying to make sense of a world that’s half soap opera, half apocalypse.

So, here’s my irreverent psychologist wisdom, straight from the suds: Life’s messy. Your brain’s a chaotic roommate who never does the dishes. And that’s okay. Keep soaking. Keep scrolling. Keep recognizing random glue-eaters on TV. Or fake ones.  The words? They’ll come. Or they won’t. Either way, you’re still here, floating in the madness, and that’s kind of badass.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my rubber duck and I have a date with a refill of hot water and some serious navel-gazing.