Tuesday, 4:30 a.m. – Writer’s block is one of the worst things to happen in the history of mankind. It’s probably not as bad as most wars, but it’s definitely worse than ‘Grey’s Anatomy,’ which is really saying something.

For most, the blockage comes when academic success is at stake. Whether it’s the night before a big paper is due for a Maxwell course, the end of the essay portion of a history exam or mid-coitus for Human Sexuality, there’s just no opportune time to get this horrific condition. Though, to be fair, most guys would MUCH rather get writer’s block mid-coitus than erectile dysfunction. Or herpes for that matter.

For me, writer’s block always happens at the same time, in the same place: the wee hours of Tuesday morning in the Watson lounge. I sit here alone, hoping for inspiration as I ponder life’s profound queries, pose deep philosophical questions and -more often than not- watching dirty YouTube clips on my laptop.

For instance, sometimes I wonder, ‘If nobody were around to hear the strange moaning noises coming from my computer right now, would the Congolese chimp that’s creating them really be making a sound?’ In all honesty, I have no idea, but the school children surrounding the ape seem to hear him loud and clear.

Other times I’ll stare at the stars and consider what meaning lies behind mankind’s very existence. Are we here for a purpose? Are we supposed to spend hours on end in front of a computer screen trying to figure out where that naked couple hid all that money they just showed to the camera? Are we meant for something more than pole-vaulting into a pool of KY jelly while wearing nothing but spandex?

But not this week. I don’t have time to wonder, ponder, consider, pontificate or even

mass read novels. It’s 5 a.m. on a Tuesday, my deadline is in 15 hours and I have no free time once my classes start in six hours. In other words, I’m hungry, sleepy and monumentally screwed.

You see there are a million topics I could write about just waiting for me to find them. But all I can think about is the stuff I CAN’T mention in a column.

For example, there’s no way I’m putting anything in here about my mustachioed broadcast news practicum professor, but I keep dwelling on how badly he chewed me out in front of my newscast team two weeks ago. It was like a storm of anger and facial hair swirled up from the depths of Newhouse II and combined to strip me of what little dignity I carry into that class. And that’s all while using proper Associated Press style and attribution techniques.

Also, I definitely can’t mention what goes on in my room most weekends. At least, not until the grand jury investigation is over.

Nor could I possibly write about my experience with two random strangers in the Watson lounge about an hour ago. At this point I’m not even sure if they’re real.

So, I guess I’m back to the beginning: Zero things to write about, several philosophical questions I don’t have time to explore and infinite online videos that will forever change the way I look at Curious George and the summer Olympics.

All I can hope for now is that this writer’s block thing somehow turns out for the best. If not, I’m taking up pole vaulting.

Danny Fersh is a sophomore broadcast journalism major and his columns appear every Wednesday. He would like to thank Ilana and Marina for being by far the coolest people he’s ever met in the Watson lounge at four in the morning, and YouTube for showing him so many creative ways to _______________________________. Watch him re-pay a gambling debt this week on The Fresh Squeeze. He can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu.