Pressure: Not Conducive to Genius

I don't know what to write about. My roommate Candice is forcing me to write a blog right now because she says I'm falling behind.
Falling behind whom, you might ask.
Why, what a great question, I would reply.
Behind the other blogs she reads, which just so happen to be the two that I follow. You see, she gets on to mine and then gets sucked into the vortex of blog reading that has permeated the online world - and I will mention that I use vortex and permeate in the best possible senses, I love blogs, hence this ones' existence. That's not the point.
I'm being forced now to write something that clearly no one will find interesting or informing and, in being both dull and dumb, will turn my readers so off from anything else I might endeavor to create that my career as a novelist will be eternally damaged.
A novelist? you ask. What have you written?
Let's not get ahead of ourselves, I will dodge your question, as there are a number of novels I have thought but never written... a theoretical, figurative, metaphoric connotation to the word novelist is what I was aiming at really.
Ahem, what was I speaking on before?
Your readers.
Thank you. Now, I know that up to this point, my faithful readers have followed my writings with such persistent excitement as to what I will "come up with next" that such mere wordling meanderings and senten-sical nonsense will come as quite a shock to those most loyal, which by the way I mean Candice herself. She is actually sitting right next to me and has no idea but that I'm writing a fantastic piece of modern literature with that ongoing hint of comedy tinging the edges. I guess the comical part I cover quite well through sarcasm but I'm not sure she'll say the same. Perhaps I should post and have done with this.
Perhaps you are right, you say.
Thanks, I like to think I am every now and then. Just my little portion of the unequal distribution of intellectual capital.