You look around, right? Search through old files, skim through internet pages, whatever. Grab your phone and scroll through your contact list, only to discover that there is no salvation there: too late at night, too early in the morning, whatever.
Salvation is the stupid little icon you keep perched in the corner, your last resort. A mental booty call, I suppose.
You click it, and as the word processing program fires up, you wish you could cancel it. Itís like hitting the dial button on your phone and immediately wishing you hadnít. Because once your call is picked up, itís too late to back out.
A bare white page, decorated only with a blinking cursor, and youíre suddenly at a loss for words, itís like when her husband answers the phone and you have to improvise an excuse.
And thatís when you realize that there is no excuseóyou should have been in bed long ago, should have listened to your better judgment, should have torn the phone from the wall or hit the power button on the front of the computer.
But instead, you go, ďHello.Ē You grab your beer from whatever ledge itís precariously placed, and you take a deep drink, and you go, ďIíve got something I need to sayÖĒ