Clock ticks

In order to prepare for being away in Rome on a lovely vacation with my wife I need to dash off 20 blog posts. Unfortunately I only have two hours to do so. Also unfortunately I used up all but eleven minutes writing the first one. This is the second one. I've now used up the last eleven minutes on this paragraph.

So the next 18 or so posts may be a bit hurried.

There may be some minor grammatical errors and a spelling mistake or two over the course of these next couple of weeks. There could be hallucinations, moments of rambling suddenly cut short with a bad pun, syntax problems, and typos. My math may go out of kilter. I will suffer from delusions of grandeur, imaginary conversations with you, visions from god, and extended periods of complaining. There may be unsolicited literary recommendations, tirades about library clerking, and lots of talk about the weather. Lots and lots and lots of talk about the weather. I may be mundane, abstruse, terribly self-involved, pandering, witty, foolish, confusing, and unintelligible. You might like one of these posts so much that you vow elatedly to yourself that you will follow this blog to the ends of the earth only to lose interest three days later and never read it again. I might mention birds. I may go on so endlessly about myself that you think it's about something greater. It is about something greater! Then you will decide, no, it's just about myself. It is! It is all about me!

Things may end abruptly or come to no real conclusion. I may start singing snatches of old songs. There may be art but there probably won't be. Some posts might be terribly short. I might get desperate. I might beg. It could get weird. It might make a lot of sense but not be what either of us thought it was. I might tell you the truth and it won't be recognizable. It could get pretty bad. There may be post after post about practically nothing. It might be a lot to take.

So, business as usual around here then.