Please, shut up.

For the past couple of days, I've found myself monumentally bored with every possible thing I might have to say in a blog-shaped utterance called a "post." Here's what happened: I went back in the archives to find out when, exactly, our Great Mouse Invasion was (I didn't find it, so whatever date I put in that last post--totally made up).

First of all, this exercise made me very glad I have kept this blog--there is a record of my days there, and things I would never remember had I not written it. Second of all, I found a lot of things to like in the writing, which is a good feeling.

At least, it's a good feeling at first, because after that, and third of all, I felt an overwhelming, existential nausea overcome me. What is all the crap I fill my days with of late? Why are there no charming little essays, manifesti, letters to inanimate objects, whatever, that come to mind? Moreover, why is my life so crowded with obligations I can't seem to remember to take care of? And avoidance--why are my hours so powerfully controlled by my urge to avoid whatever it is that's at hand, needing to be done?

I know, it's insufferable. As Robert Lowell said, "I myself am hell." Not to mention, hell on other people.

So that--this absurd state of funk, for absolutely no good reason, really--that's why I haven't blogged for a couple of days. But now: I finished a draft of the paper my colleague and I are writing. I hung up all my clothes. I turned in my travel papers to be reimbursed. I don't know, the day looks brighter.

In the meantime, I have found another possible alternative career--ghost Twitterer.