MASON: Columnist does not want to write this column

If newspapers were audible rather than visual, I could probably more accurately describe my feelings toward having to write a column right now.

I've had a bad week and the only thing I can think about is my bad week. I am sick of my bad week, though, and I definitely don't want to think about it more let alone edit it for correct grammar and punctuation and send it out to be critiqued by the world.

I would give anything right now to have 700 to 900 words about David Letterman or health care. At least, I'd give anything to be able to write 700 to 900 words about David Letterman or health care that I couldn't somehow turn into a column about how life is unfair, and I'll never date again, and the side of my head will ache indefinitely because I can't afford to get these wisdom teeth out of my freaking face.

I don't want to write this column, and I sure don't want to subject innocent readers to the product of my inability to properly cope with stress.

I'd rather make excuses. I'd like to tell myself that I don't have to take care of my responsibilities (most of which I have elected to be responsible for) because I have had a bad week, and I deserve to sit around and pout while I make fun of the people of peopleofwalmart.com and gorge myself with some cheese-flavored snack.

I can't do that. Well, I can but I'll probably make my situation worse. The world doesn't revolve around me. No one cares about how I am feeling. That's not meant to be self-deprecating. It's meant to be self-loathing.

I'm just kidding, but any chance I have at someone being concerned with my where's-my-binky attitude is going to be ruined if I cause them problems by not doing things I promised to do. Like write this column. Crap week or not, I need to generate words. I have lemons, and someone is counting on me to make lemonade. So I'll make it.

I'm not putting in any sugar though.

Oh, great. So, I'm listening to my iPod Touch right now. It's on shuffle and Simon & Garfunkel's "A Most Peculiar Man" just came on. One great lyric is, "He had no friends, he seldom spoke / And no one in turn ever spoke to him / ‘Cause he wasn't friendly, and he didn't care / And he wasn't like them." The "peculiar man" ends up fatally poisoning himself in the song.

I knew there was a solution.

Insert expletive.

OK. I stared off into space for five minutes and Shaggy's "Mr. Boombastic" came on: much better. Dancehall reggae has some of the most motivational lyrics: "Don't you tickle my foot bottom (giggle) baby please / Don't you play with my nose, I might ha chum sneeze / Well you the bun and me the cheese, and if me the rice, well you the peas."

At least I'm hungry now.

I "magically" lost six pounds recently. I keep forgetting to eat. Now, given my recovering relationship with food, this should be a blessing. Forgetting to eat though? If I can't remember to keep myself alive (did I feed my cat?) how am I supposed to get a college degree? I'm no expertologist, but I think food is a key component of survival.

Last week I asked via Facebook how I should deal with this stress. I was told I should punch a man, meditate, have sex, run or some other strenuous activity and get some lavender mint tea tree oil. I didn't try them all, but they seem like a lot of work. I don't want work. Work is, like, hard. Strenuous activity? Does freaking out all the time not count? Lavender mint tea tree oil? Does that have alcohol in it?