Don't call it a hibernation.
Or do. I don't care. It is true that I have been away for some time, and by "been away," I mean "right here, doing nothing."
In my defense, however, I must say that Sir Walkingshaw has not taken full advantage of this opportunity. A full three months or so of consequence-free blog-posting? It's like the Summer of Love, and poor old Eric is stuck inside learning how to play the flute.
It has indeed been awhile; my double-entendres have gotten rusty.
I would go into detail to explain/justify my absence, but I find there is no need. Beyond UN-style non-binding resolutions and something called a "Wordle," it seems Eric has also spent some time alone in his own lair, doing God only knows what (assumption: training attack robots to focus their laser-beam eyes on a crude effigy of yours truly). I would return triumphantly with an incisive, witty take-down of Eric's recent postings, but alas, what could even the greatest of wordsmiths do with a "Wordle?" It is, in its own inimitable way, beyond reproach. And far be it from me to discourage Eric from his promises to occupy his time with activities other than plotting the downfall of mankind.
And yet, I cannot proclaim victory (actually, yes I can--victory is Mine!). No, no, it is hollow, meaningless, a husk. I have won nothing. Our mutual disappearances are, at best, the blog-battle equivalent of a 0-0 draw, minus the excitement. I have a heavy suspicion that Eric's time away from this blood-stained, metal-strewn battleground has been far more productive than my own, that he shall emerge, whenever he chooses to do so, a much wiser and stronger man than myself. And this fills me with a bitter rage that burns hotter than the glowing embers of a dying robot's energy core.
But what am I to do? Without my foil, I am at a loss. I am a balloon untethered, adrift from the finger of its owner. Where, and at whom, shall I direct all this dangerous energy?
The short answer is myself. The long answer is also myself, I just say it really slowly.
This is a blog, after all, and while I fought the good fight valiantly, I cannot tame this beast much longer. A blog yearns to be narcissistic and introspective. A blog's natural state is one of navel-gazing and self-aggrandizement. While I have ridden the coattails of Eric's blog rather successfully, his recent scorched-Earth policy has left me with no choice but to resort to cannibalism. That is a pretty sketchy metaphor, but in this blog's new era, that will be par for the course. There is no room for petard-hoisting in the Theater of the Self.
There is a shred of decency left in me, however, that resists the urge to head down this ugly path. It wants instead to grasp onto something--hope, is it called?--and await our nemesis' return. And since I am such a weak-willed (and weak-armed) man, I relent, to a degree. What shall follow in the days and weeks to come will be about me, as it must be, but it will be about me as I stand in relation to that dark, devious being down Oregon way; how I came to be the way I am, in such stark opposition to him and all he stands for (except baseball, which we are both rather fond of).
It goes without saying that robots will have much to do with it all, as they do with so much else.
