The power of words

I love words--written words, spoken words, words are the love of my life.
I revel in the way they feel on my tongue, the way they express my thoughts and feelings, the way people react to them.
I even love the word . . .word. To your mother.
I don't think about my words too carefully before they fall out of my mouth, either landing with a splat at my feet or soaring to the heavens on a particularly brilliant day. And, yes, I do have those days.
For example, comparing an epiphany to a flaming orgasm last week had my coworkers busting their proverbial guts in laughter.
(I'm waiting on the sexual harassment complaint to arrive later this week, BTW.)
Or discussing with my brother and sister in law that I enjoy low fat salami in front of my mother.
(She was so proud of that college education at that moment.)
Anyhow . . .
I find myself lately facing a quandary. While I love words, I find that when thinking about writing them, the words spiraling my in mind become log jammed somewhere between my mind, my mouth, and my fingers and nothing spews forth.
My Old Faithful has become an Old Fizzle.
And while I realized that, in my old age, I might be good for fewer and fewer literary epiphanies, I didn't think it would happen in my thirties.
So my love affair with words is becoming distinctly one sided as, for the moment, I find that they don't love me back.
I am hoping to jump start our relationship once more, to renew it over a weekend of faithful contact, of devoted attention, of loving caresses.
I'm hoping to remind my words what they'll be missing if they stray.
And what is that exactly?
A woman who loves them passionately, blindly.
A woman whose verbal filters are mostly switched off and who will say almost anything without hesitation and without liquid libations assistance.
A woman who, when she dies, hope the afterlife is a enormous library with comfy reading chairs and hot tea at all times.
I am a word slut.
Come and take me baby!