A long time ago - or maybe a couple of weeks ago, I dunno - I was reading Mimi Smartypants and I found out one of her biggest peeves: webloggers who post an entry to inform everyone that they won't be writing in their weblog anymore: that they have nothing to say, that the pressure has squeezed the joy out of the activity, that the rest of their lives has risen up like a tsunami of busyness and stress, swamping them amidships and leaving them at sea, paddling away and scanning the horizon for shore (as a side note, I tried to type 'shore' and ended up typing 'hoser' instead - how often do you get the chance to mistype so thoroughly that you end up with an anagram? And how often do you get to exhaust a nautical metaphor as thoroughly as I have?). Are you crippled by stress? Is your life running out of control? Write about it, she says.
Which is what I'm doing here. I generally resist writing about my current troubles, based on the notion that the folks who come here for the transcribed conversations and elaborate jokes aren't interested in my daily troubles. And really, I'm still not going to write about them here, at least not in detail - most of my current stress stems from work, and if there's one thing I don't want to discuss, it's my work. I'd hate to make some offhand comment like my production schedule is total bullshit or maybe I wouldn't lift a finger to save this show if it tripped over Niagara Falls and screamed all the way down that will come back to bite me during a review.
What really gets me is how divided I feel. At work I'm divided between one task and another, and when I settle on a task I'm divided between approach A and approach B. And always I'm divided on whether what I'm doing is worth the effort I expend on it - indeed, whether it's worth any of my effort at all. Entertaining cable television subscribers is not my idea of a worthwhile goal. Hey, did I say something about comments that will eventually bite me in the ass?