\”blog\” ryhmes with \”bog\”…

I can still see our green minivan pulling into the driveway after a day spent at Sea world with my two best friends. I can picture myself getting out of the car, turning around to slam the door behind me and finding myself face-to-face with a woman I had never seen before. I can hear her asking if we had a small white dog, noting the stern expression on the pale face framed by thin, dark red hair. I remember each word of the story she told, of how she had been walking around our cul-de-sac when she noticed a dog wriggling out from underneath a gate, and the hand she extended when she told me she had tried to grab it, only to be bitten and watch it run away.
The next thing I knew, my mom and I were running around the neighborhood with a flashlight and a leash, the cold night air numbing my face. My feet pounded against the pavement as I tried not to think of what could have happened to my dog. I stopped running for a second, to catch my breath, cup my hands around my mouth and yell her name. As we ran past an alleyway, I saw a blurry white blob emerge out of the darkness, watched it hurtle toward me, transforming into a creature whose long ears flew up with each bounding leap. I knelt down, scooped it up, and hugged it so tightly, I heard its breath whoosh out. I held on to my limp and tired puppy, wanting the moment of reunion to last.

  Something is blocking my train of thought. I sit at the computer on a Friday afternoon, my fingers resting on home position on the keyboard. The spacebar flashes on and off at the top of the page, blinking.            I run a hand over my face, weave strands of hair through my fingers, and stretch out my back. I listen to the vertebrae in my spine re-align themselves, and sigh. Once again, I scan the list of possible blog topics, eliminating them one by one. I have nothing to say about my “guardian angel”, have never wanted something so much that I felt an eternity pass before I had it, and have never been told to “grow up.” There is nothing on the list I can write say 175 words about, and yet, I can’t think up a new topic of my own. I riffle through my copy of The Odyssey, but my mind is as blank as the Word document before me. The clock ticks in sync with the space bar flashing on and off at the top of the screen.              As the sun sets I stare at my hands, waiting for a thought to come, to make my fingers spring into action and type. The computer bathes my face in an electric blue glow as the cursor flashes on and off, blinking.