Getting on the treadmill

This is the blog of a writer with nothing to say. Of course, when Seinfeld had nothing to say, he minted a million bucks out of it. This, please note, is not that kind of nothing to say. This nothing to say comes from a piercingly sharp inability to figure out the world around one in a manner that is say, different from the average writer-journalist-author's published inability to do so.
What this translates to is that I am excrutiatingly unable to write anymore.
Hence the name of the blog. Spot Jogging, which is what I spend my life doing. I jog, so that the editors at my newly launched newspaper and those around me can blissfully sustain the notion that I am moving my ass long enough and hard enough to earn the salary that I draw. It also means I work up quite a sweat while doing so, evidence of course of this long and hard and splendid ability to be productive. However, blogspotters please note, this also implies that I have, am, and probably always will, go nowhere.
The mind does not progress. Right now I am at this inane phase where everytime I draw out my keyboard to write, my fingers automatically type out the word 'P-O-L-I-C-E'. There is no reason for this. I have never dialled the police, and have caused no one to, it is not remotely on the scene of my beat, but yet, there exists an unthinking urge to type it out. Not once, but repeatedly, irrespective of whether a word document is open to receive this ritualistic offering of my hunted subconscious.
The second issue is the word 'increasingly'. I increasingly feel the urge to use the word in all my sentences. This is increasingly followed, by a gap of a few words, by 'quintessential'. I increasingly find great peace in typing the word 'quintessential'. I try, much to the chagrin of my already much chagrined boss, to introduce the word into headlines, tag lines, captions, credits, if that were possible would be 'quintessentially XYZ.' I find great balance in the word, the way the rounded q, u, e, and s balance the straighter letters, if you er... get my drift.
Point being I have nothing to say anymore. I am not a lifestyle journalist. I do not get the undercurrents of fashion. I do not spot a bias cut pink tulle sequin embossed skirt and go 'Ah', illuminating my life for an incandescent second like a much starved christmas fairy light being bestowed a precious watt of electricity, even if only for an instant. No, I do not.
I am not a page 3 person. I don't spot celebrities. In fact, at most, I can be accused of mistaking myself for one at embarrassingly inopportune moments, such as when I walked out of Spaghetti Kitchen in a huff muttering about the rude lunchers who were staring at me, only to be told by a bemused ex that Katrina Kaif had been seated at the next table. I would not know a celebrity even if I turned into one.
Politics is a problem because I have an issue with names. I scarcely get the names of my own team members right. I muddle them up, and frequently substitute vowels for consonants. I would create havoc in the political sphere. The one political copy I was given to edit, I married off Jaya Jaitley, then a sitting MP or soemthing or the other, to Arun Jaitley. She smiled weakly at me when I apologised, as if unsure if this migth actually aid her political fortunes as opposed to the linkage with George Fernandes.So politics is out.
Economics would be a cake walk... except that I have never filed income tax returns and have no clue how to manage my money. I would not be able to recognise a mutual fund from a mortgage and the juniors on the team will now not let me even provide the headlines for any sensex 8000 stories. I guess that's a hint I should steer clear.
Crime.. I'm still trying to catch an mtnl let alone an underworld connection.
What do I do? I'm jogging. But I ain't going nowhere.