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  • Writer's pictureChoo Choo

Countdown: Twenty, Nineteen...


2019 is mere hours old. It’s still wet behind the ears. Barely post-partum.

Speaking of post-partum, pardon me—I haven’t posted since September. (That wordplay works better when spoken aloud.) But to be honest I’ve done longer stretches of blog drought and I probably will again.

Is there any uglier aural tableau than “blog drought”? Like a drain clogged with hair and unnecessary adjectives.

Like most other days, I spent today (or rather, yesterday afternoon, but since I’m still awake right now yesterday is still today) focusing on one thing when I ought to have been working on a great many others. Unlike most other days, I am oddly proud of what I accomplished, and to be honest I’m not really sure why. This project was the lovechild of boredom, a calendrical earworm, and a sudden urge to clone myself into a barbershop quartet. Never mind that I am technologically challenged and vocally limited. I’m no Jacob Collier, nor do I ever hope to be, but I birthed a musical creature from my mouth and it didn’t involve pushing any black-and-white buttons. So there it is.

I guess I am easily entertained.


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