And the Difference is Youuuuuuuu...

Incredible, the things you can miss living 6 months of your life off the record out of the scrutinizing eye of the public. The preceding dry spell of postings to the Bubonic Plague Luncheonette was originally precipitated by the assumption that I simply had nothing fascinating to say regarding the day-to-day operatings of my now somewhat humdrum adult life (which one might rightfully assume contains far fewer incidents of EXXXTREME Poop and other such engrossing conversation topics than my early days as an undergrad at MIT - where, it seems, they have some horrid problems with their bowel movements). This assumption has further led to many half-baked/mostly-baked attempts at creating grandiose entries for reader amusement, only to discover that I simply have not the power to make a mountain out of the mole hill-worthy events that have punctuated these last 6 months. As I opened the Plague index earlier this afternoon, I witnessed a myriad of semi-complete entries on some seemingly very forced topics which included the history of St. Guinness Day, the Hick Experience Part I: Bikes, Jerky, and Teeth (a story about how I had more teeth in my mouth than the entire family of hicks who sold me my riding chaps combined), and your garden variety Ex- bashing (otherwise known as the explanation of "why I date men with long hair"). I do, however, also have a story about a sack of shit - in the classic Bubonic Plague style, which I suppose would have been enough to keep the rest of the Plaguemongers happy, but I digress.
The point of my post is that I think I reached an epiphany today, through a tried-and-true process of sleep-deprivation combined with various deep concerns over the lateness of my usual monthly visitor (though I am pretty sure that she just became a victim of the usual clusterfuck that is the MBTA and she'll be here as soon as they peel up that hobo who fell onto the tracks). And that point would be: by forcing your writing to come to you, you doom your pieces to the gruesome fate of mediocrity. In the same manner that a comedian trying too hard is simply not funny, a writer trying far too hard to draw deeper meaning from a situation is doomed to fall face-first into the literary soup-sandwich occupied by the likes of Sandra Cisneros, Jane Austen, Maya Angelou, and Dr. Phil, amongst others.
Before you even begin to reach for that mouse to click on the Comments link in order to bitch me out, I will refer you straight to your high school reading days when you were forced to read preachy ethnic drivel including "The House On Mango Street," "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," and of course "Pride and Prejudice" (I burned my copy upon completion of the unit, only to find myself two years later re-subjected to the same piece of crap reading requirement for a "Comedy" class, $5.00 short and far too full of pride to stoop to purchasing another copy. I knew I should have smelled trouble when the syllabus of a Comedy class included works by Jane Austen). But honestly, whoever thought up of the template, "Gee, it sure is hard to be [insert ethic/cultural/religious/gender/species group here], everybody treat my incoherent literary micturation as gospel!" unintentionally birthed a genre known as "Post Modern Attention Whorism." See for yourself and get back to me if you managed to read entirely through Jane Eyre without spearing a fork in your eye and stirring up a martini with it.

On that note, I think I'll begin a series of experimental entries entitled "Good Enough for Government Work," dedicated to the ins and outs and occasional nuances of my everyday life at the office - we'll roll with whatever inspiration and insight might come therein. Be forewarned, though, I can't imagine this series ever topping the Maxim Chronicles written two years ago during my internship at the semiconductor company (not the nudie mag). I just don't hate my job that much, and I doubt I can muster up the amount of rage wholly necessary to start going off about my coworkers the way I went off about that inane marketing dink, Teresa. Then again, I've had a pretty rough last few days, so really, only time will tell.

Further bulletins as events warrant.