Man, I so know where Wil Wheaton is at with this:

I sit here and drink my coffee, which is getting cold and bitter (how appropriate). A Starbucks guy runs a sweeper across the floor around me, and beneath my feet.

“Are you a writer?” he asks.

“I hope so,” I tell him. He sort of recoils from me, and I feel bad. It’s not his fault that I haven’t written anything in over a week. It’s not his fault my sweet and kind 12 year-old stepson has been replaced with a surly, disrespectful podperson. It’s not his fault that this couple’s wonderful, supernova passion for each other is what I want and lack more than anything else on earth. Maybe it’s the grey sky, the cold February day, or Stinky stinking up my chair . . . but I can’t feel passion for anything these days. I am a man in his thirties, snapping at a boy in his twenties, because I used to be him.

“I mean . . . I’m trying. I’ve done some good stuff in the past, but right now I’m in a bit of a rut.” I say.

“Oh, well, I hope you find your way out,” he says, kindly. No harm, no foul.

Also, I was Tweed Jacket. Only it was somewhere else. And It would have been a notebook, not a crossworld puzzle.