The gaping maw of the blog is never sated. Drawings that never would have made the cut are thrown up to avoid the void. I must post every day, for Ruben stands in the wings, waiting for an opening. Some days, the electrical patterns shift, and the well-tuned machine shudders and spasms and grinds in crude circles, going nowhere. The tiniest shift of a line here and there, and  a drawing turns into an amateurish scrawl. Aside from being deeply depressing, it raises the spectre of a blank blog day, which will cause the gods, unappeased, to wreak their petulant havoc on my fragile life. Just now I spilled yogurt on my keyboard, for example. And I was only talking about missing a post.

You know, life is just too challenging for some of us. We're like auto mechanics who try to get by with a set of Playskool tools. My Little Pony Tune-up Kit. We're like little homunculi, lacking the necessary carapace that wards off the UV rays. We're like this, we're like that. We fall and fail and lie in a whining lump on the dirty floor with the dust balls and the sloughed-off skin cells and the months-old Cheetos. Did you know that the majority of the detritus that we collect when dusting and sweeping consists of dead skin cells from our very own repulsive bodies? Or that our pillows are teeming with parasitic micro-organisms? Or that when you smell a bad smell, your nose lining is actually absorbing molecules of that bad thing? And yet, there's hope: a supremely confident action-oriented adult like John Edwards can not only betray his wife, but can repeatedly lie about it, and then in the midst of his apologies can appear to be preening. If such an achiever can insinuate himself between me and the very floor of human worthiness, then there's light at the end of the tunnel.