The Excuse of Damocles that hangs perpetually over everything I do here at Writing About Writing has fallen this morning. After a week of The Brain attempting to upload into a new patrol region in order to give access to her awesomeness to all new people*–meaning I've been doing LOTS of extra hours with The Contrarian and I'm already behind on writing–Uber Dude came into my junk room/office this morning, literally within seconds of my sitting down to write, and told me that he has to install new supervillian/misdemeanor detection and discrimination software into the TK-4000s that patrol the Temescal. They have been blasting jay walkers with rail guns, and could I please go with The Contrarian to his pediatric appointment?
*underprivileged children as it turns out–The Brain is like a superhero INSIDE a superhero
Of course I said yes. Turning jay walkers into fine red mist is not what we're about here at The Hall of Rectitude, and that shit cannot go on without attention for another eight and a half months.
There is LOTS of good stuff coming. (I'm serious. I'm entering one of those "amaze even myself" periods of creativity and productivity.) But I don't want to half-ass fire out my ideas in the fifteen minutes between The Contrarian falling asleep and the Fed Ex guy pounding on the door with a package (that totally would have fit in the slot) for which "no signature is necessary." (Fuck that guy!) And I don't want to slap my post up at 6PM on a Friday when the east coast has already left their computers for the day to do jello shots and make questionable life choices.
So I must invoke the baby excuse....