I WRITE THIS COLUMN every single week and sometimes I just run out of stuff to say. This is one of those weeks. I don't have a unifying topic that I care about, and I'm just so tired of writing about Portland or even "Portland" or even PORTLAND like it's anything other than a bunch of people enjoying restaurants. I also can't really reach down and manufacture something absurd, which is really frustrating because those columns are very fun to write. I can't think of any lists to fuck around with for 500 words. I don't have a personal reflection that I care to share with any of you. There is no pop culture I want to reconsider. I'm just kind of fucked right now, everyone. My brain is nothing but an endless strip mall full of recently shuttered pawnshops.

I went to Las Vegas last weekend for work. It was fine. I went to the iHeartRadio concert where a bunch of really popular musical acts were all playing their biggest hits, and I thought about writing about that—you know like extrapolating some idea about being authentic to yourself from how I didn't totally hate Kenny Chesney's live performance.

Or like, Kanye West only played 30 seconds of each of his hits, and that's all we deserved.

Or like, Lil Wayne is hip-hop Icarus and it sucks to watch melted-wing Icarus stumble around.

Or like, the Killers don't need you to think they're cool, and we could all learn from that.

But obviously I didn't write any of that. I don't know what's going on with me. You know, honestly, I read some really mean Facebook comments about this column and it made me angry, but really my feelings were just hurt, and I was mad that I let it hurt my feelings. It's hard to make anything and put it out there, and I think one drawback of writing is that you think what you're working on is shit, and then you finish it and you still think it's shit, but then you start working on the NEXT thing and you're like, "Oh no, that last one wasn't shit, it was good. THIS one is shit."

You think you're constantly decaying creatively, so comments like, "WHO THE FUCK IS THIS GUY? HE SUCKS." show up like a hyena to the corpse of my self-confidence, which was already felled and mutilated by my own insecurity. It still looms, but the damage has already been done, ya fuckin' hyenas.

I guess there's nothing to do but just FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING DEAL WITH IT and turn my brain into a pillbug and hibernate through this dry spell as seasons change, and the ground cracks, and even god's best effort at a cactus chokes and dehydrates and fucks off, and somebody knocks it over and builds a condo there. And a gastropub. And a fucking electric bike store that sells fun socks.