An Old Madness Hath Taken Hold Of Me, Part I

Oh, goodness. It's been a while. Homework ate my life. It's still got two more days to devour until summer class ends, but whatever. I am updating my blog right now.

The whole Camp Nano/JulNo thing was a bust. I did a 5k marathon of words on the first day, and then after that...nothing. I had homework out the stinky, dripping wazoo* and this had to take precedence over all else. It can be argued that where there's a way there's a will, and that the persistent mind can always find time to write.

But Guilt is a harsh mistress.

Not even the harshest self-critical rantings and self-esteem-leeching nitpickings and brain-whippings of the most tyrannical Inner Editor can reduce you to a pile of soggy, cringing, whining emotional pulp as quickly or as effectively as a single glance of Guilt can, and not even the wildest wiles, or the most exhilarating inspiration of the Muse can build you up again. That is not to say that the justice of Guilt is not tempered with mercy, for she acknowledges the need to wind down and take breaks once in a while. She fosters productivity, not panic attacks, and she certainly withdrew herself to allow me leisure to read books, and to watch TV, and to eat unhealthily sugary things. But the sheer amount of work I had left to do, and the importance of it, precluded the option of me putting it off to write. As Guilt so aptly pointed out, if I had the energy to write, then I had the energy to code.

Then she merely flicked her little finger, and slashed me with her whip (it's made of deadlines) until I bled in binary.***

I can't blame Guilt. She was just doing her job, as was I.

I blame this on July. I thought I knew you. I thought you were my friend, July. You have ever been true and faithful to me, and I knew not the betrayal lurking on the horizon. I was looking forward to our time alone together, in the heat and lazy haze of summer. It seems this was not to be, for you turned out to be a backstabbing blackhearted anthropomorphosized chronological entity, sapping the joy of the season with your fluorescent sponge of academia and mental anguish.

July, my cursed love, I lay thee to rest, and hope that the future may one day bring summer again for us.

*Shurmann's Dictionary of Infinite Verse defines this as a small fruit of uncertain origin, after it's been rotting in the fridge for a while**

**Shurmann's Dictionary exists in the nonexistential plane. It's just like Earth, except that written words smell strangely purple, and they tend to read you back.

***Not literally, but that would be pretty cool.