2003-10-24 - 4:52 p.m.
As you can tell, I've been less than utterly faithful to the diary of late -- this is because 17 picoseconds after agreeing to my company's request to travel soon, my life suddenly morphed, like a mad scientist's gruesome creation in some cheap 50s horror flick, into Absurdly, Ridiculously Busy. I realize that is the standard excuse given, per Blogger's Code 47297 Subsection D, for any lapses in online yammering, but (and I realize this is standard counter-response per Blogger's Code 47297 Subsection E) it's really true this time. Really. Honestly. Okay, only partly true.One of the results of my quick transformation into Whirling Get-Stuff-Done Dervish is that my brain is no longer a vast network of neurons and their crazy firing -- it is now much more akin to a mixture of granola, milk, and pink food-colouring. You cannot begin to imagine the myriad inconveniences this has brought about -- I'm forced, every six hours, to remove my brain, knead it, and add a bit more milk, lest it lose its mastery over involuntary functions. I must only use homogenized milk -- if I add skim, heaven forbid, then my mind wanders uncontrollably and the only response I can formulate to anything said to me is, "mmm, I hear ya." You get the idea.
So now the trouble is, scrambling to rewrite a chapter of my master's thesis before I leave, planning my work for the time I'm away, etc., and doing it all with a brain much less like a brain and much more like the meals sweathouse labourers in Dickens novels must have eaten, I'm just a tad on the absent-minded side. Over the course of a day, I think of things I want to write about here, and then later when I sit at the computer with five free minutes to spare, fresh from a brain-knead and ready to immortalize those clever anecdotes of mine among the ones and zeroes of the wired world, I find that I cannot recall a thing I'd planned to write. Alarmed at my sudden mind-lapse, I hasten to the refrigerator to check which variety of milk I've bought, but as soon as I arrive in the kitchen, I cannot recall my original purpose there to save my name. It is generally at this point that an attendant in a white suit enters my apartment, places his arm around me, and guides my gibbering frame back to the chair. Once I've puzzled out the keyboard once more, and my attendant has sung me a soothing song and helped me mop up any brain-leakage that may have occurred, I begin typing anew, but find myself unable to bang out anything but a series of links to other webpages with "mmm, I hear ya" beside them. Thankfully my thoughtful attendant has spoken with the good people at Diaryland and asked that they kindly delete any postings I make that take this form, to spare me any awful shame.
That's why postings have been sporadic. That and my being busy. Now you know the whole story. Take that, Blogger's Code 47297 Subsection D!
UPDATE (PLUG PLUG PLUG): If you're a Reginer (Reginois? Reginuvian?) and a pubgoer, you will be pleased, thrilled, overjoyed, elated, and strangely aroused to hear that The National Pist is in print once more! Copies of issue 2 lay slumbering in the depths of pubs all over Regina -- release 'em and give 'em a read. They come highly recommended by overworked editor...
