Rather unfortunately.

Am I still alive?

The words, the constant flow of consciousness never stopped. And no. Neither did the occasions that inspire musings.

But they might as well have.

It would have been better for me to not have had witty ideas and moments to write about than to have been tortured without the time to put them on the page. Yes, the thoughts came, but where they should have been written was replaced only by the cold cusp of communism.


A term paper. If you will.

I've always been a writer, and ever so Shamelessly, not afraid to admit it. Essays were the guilty pleasures, as I possessed a menacing joy from the ease with which I completed them.

However, my term project on post-communist regime transition in East-Central Europe was no walk in the park. No sirs. No madams. It was a formidable adversary. I could feel the breath of Joseph Stalin on my neck as a trudged through scholarly journal trenches, and it was like the fate of democracy rested within the completion of my task.

Every ounce of typing was sucked out of my Shameless, but slender, fingers. This project was worth 40% of my grade. Blogging however, is not.

Rather unforunately.

I took every stone in my pocket and heaved it at this Goliath, and on the 19th page it fell out of my printer, and unto Dr. VonHansasburg's desk.

"This graduate paper feels like it has some weight to it," said VonHansasburg.

I know doctor. Believe me. I know.

A dent was made in the once impenetrable armor of the Writer's Writ. This was no essay of ease, and every part of me has felt it. But the most daunting mountains have yet to be questioned.

There are more of them. Lerking. Waiting. In pages of syllabuses. A multitude of droning paragraphs waiting for my eyes. A topic sentence with a thirst for combat. A bibliography that thrives on the blood of infants. A conclusion that goes without saying....

However. Next time.

I'll be ready.

Next time.

I wont procrastinate.