I want to break things

Wow, this is fun. 3000 words into my novel and I am homicidal. I think that should now be the first question asked of murder suspects in custody.

"Sir/Madam, have you recently attempted to write a novel?"

I guarantee a full confession will follow immediately. So far I have resisted the urge to dispatch my pit bull, who barks just as the right word is about to fall into my consciousness, permanently jettisoning it out of my reach forever; the neighbor's teenage daughter who, for a semi-professional ice skater, plays a helluva lot of basketball during skating season; and the cat, whose future has never looked more bleak.

Even my references are laughing at me. While struggling to come up with a last name for one of my main characters, a non-evil fellow who nonetheless caused me a good deal of grief, I turned to the local phone book. First name I come to, I said, will be his surname. First draw: Wisconsin. Ha-ha, very funny.

Second draw: Wisdom. Oh, that's very cute. I shook the pages a bit by the binder, just to re-mix the names, and tried again.

Third draw: Christian. Dear God, someone is fucking with me.

Not one to be undone by the Yellow Pages, I try again.

Fourth draw: Cambria. I will let you in on this simply because it is even more clever than all the previous ones combined. The character I am trying to name is loosely based on a man who was once convinced that I was having an affair with a man who now lives in Cambria, (state to remain anonymous). One I wanted an affair with more than either man ever would have suspected.

Fifth draw, this one just for shits and giggles: Drinkwine.

I am telling you, I can't make this shit up.

There is no more. I set the phone book on fire and threw it at the cat.