Don't bother me I'm writing

Listening to the radio on my way to work this morning I learned that Internet Use Addiction was recently added to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Health Disorders, which got me thinking -- perhaps there's a writing addiction disorder. If the clinical definition of addiction is any compulsive behavior that interferes with your life and relationships -- I'm definitely an addict.  It's a wonderful scapegoat -- addiction.  When I finally lose it and shave my head and burn down my house and crash my car into the gun range clubhouse, I can blame it on my writing addiction -- "I'm sorry officers. I was suffering from writing withdrawals. It's a real thing -- look it up in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Health Disorders." I feel like a fraud these days calling myself a "writer." I don't write; I think about it all day while I'm busy with other crap, and when I finally get home and lock myself away

Buck Henry and his posse of toothless, pickup-driving hillbillies are down at the gun range again blowing sh*t up and polluting my writing space with their god dammed racket. I'm one POP away from marching over there and taking them down with my husband's pink remote control airplane or maybe his potato gun.  It's 8:00 at night. I think it's quite reasonable to expect all gunfire will cease by the time some boring people go to bed.  I'm trying to concentrate here, but my train is interrupted every half second by explosions and echoes of explosions and the faint clang -- they're a mile away -- of Henry's moonshine jugs being tossed in the back of some buttworm's rusty hunting vehicle. What if I started a commune next door to the gun range? What if I blasted sitar music and tantric chanting on really BIG -- for lack of any audio words -- speakers? I know a guy who sells  patuli-scented tiki torches and sandalwood peace arches.