In doing my research for the dissertation, I came across the stray fact that Dickens was never able to begin writing a novel without first coming up with that novel's title. That's not usually my case, but it was this time. I wait for something to annoy the hell out of me before I start venting my spleen in a blog, and then said spleen precedes the title that heads it.

But this blog wasn't inspired by me being pissed off. It was inspired by me sitting in bed, as I've done for most of the day, recovering from a stupid cold brought on, I imagine, because of the rapid and dramatic rise in the mercury this past week (I have no idea of the science behind it, but I've just noticed that I manage to get colds and other unpleasant things involving sinuses whenever the temperature changes dramatically in either direction). I spent most of the day reading and finished Uncle Tom's Cabin, getting a bit emotional when Eva died and when Eliza and Cassy were reunited. Sorry if I spoiled that for anyone. The rest of time involved DVDs of Britcoms, and I'm now extremely fed up of the TV. Anderson Cooper's now on yapping in the background, and I give him a moments' appreciation every few minutes, but even he's starting to wear on me now. My energy's starting to return at 11 p.m., which proves an extremely inconvenient time for a reunion with absconded verve.

So I decided to see what was up with the old blog and noticed, to my amazement, that it's been three months without me posting a word. In almost four years of blogging, such a long period has never passed without me writing a blog. Did I really go that long without something annoying me? Let me check: the Iraq war's still on; I faced a major hurdle in conceptualizing my dissertation; there've been at least two Republican debates during which I was dangerously close, in my unprofessional medical opinion, to having an aneurysm; my cat's developed the charming habit of waking me up at some point during the 6.00 a.m. hour so I can play with her... Nope, that's at least the usual quota of things to annoy me that would warrant blogs, and it's not a comprehensive list.

So why haven't I written? Could I have developed some kind of phobia that there are only so many words left in me and that I should save them for the prospectus and dissertation, hoping I would now and then thereafter find some kind of magic mushroom (the allusion here is to the Super Mario games, not to hallucinogenic fungi) that would increase capacity and replenish supply to fuel the odd academic article and sustain a quest for tenure? In such a case, wasting words on silly blogs would be decadent and downright irresponsible. But I haven't developed any such phobia of logopause.

I honestly don't know why I stopped writing, but I know this sense of a day wasted and the need to do something productive (being at least partially under the influence of cough syrup prevents me from doing any actual work, in the interest of not having to redo it later) has brought me back to the good old blog. But even now as I draw to the close of this entry that, were I in the mood to read what I've written, might prove to lack coherency and structure and be guilty of the occasional grammatical or orthographic transgression, I still feel unfulfilled.

(By the way, I've tired of Anderson for the moment and now have Alton Brown as my background noise).

Think of the many writers and philosophers who have produced profound works of philological splendour with ennui, restlessness, and confinement as their sole raw materials. I have a whole day's worth of such yarn--why can't I spin it into like gold? Hell is... other TV shows. The great majority of men lead lives of... quaffing cough syrups.

Doesn't work for me. Oh well. Alton's demonstrating how to dismantle a lobster. I guess I'll pay attention to that.