Oh hello there. You seem to have caught me mid-blog. Or rather, you might have done, had I not been silent in the world of substandard online diarism for quite some time now. In fact, I do believe it has been a whole year! Have you missed me? Have your days been empty and startlingly bleak without my comforting thoughts to guide you? Well I don’t really care either way. Because, as we've firmly established on numerous prior occasions, I don’t really like you very much. For example, do you remember that magical time, years ago, when we were both carefree children in the playground of our lives, and I would push you gently on the swings? Just so you know: I was actually thinking about pushing you gently off a cliff.
In any case, I feel like I should provide some kind of update on things that have occurred during our intervening silence. But honestly, I can’t think of much. I mean, there was that time when [redacted] happened during [redacted]. I know, it’s been an entire year. But I'm still not ready to talk about it. Trust me, [redacted] was pretty bad. And I don’t mean bad in the Star Trek: The Next Generation sense, where a character will suffer something emotionally or intellectually crippling…and affecting them for the space of exactly one episode. Like the one where Picard gets tortured and has a mental breakdown but then is back in command of Starfleet's flagship in the next episode. Or the one where Worf breaks his neck and has to relearn how to walk, so that he can be Chief of Security again in the next episode. Or the one where Geordi is brainwashed into being a terrorist and has to painstakingly piece his memory back together, just in time to work engineering miracles in the next episode.
Well, trust me, that thing we're not talking about is really sticking with me. When I'm ready to talk about it, I'll let you know. But understand this: you will be genuinely harrowed by the tale. And you should know that I've also been thinking about redecorating.
Notes: So ever since Miles Mayhem escaped from the facility here beneath campaign headquarters, over a year ago, I've been running the events of our lives together over and over in my head. I just can’t stop thinking that there must surely have been some way I could have changed things. Maybe there was something I could have done differently, or something I should have said? Did I not love little Miles enough? Did I, perhaps, use the electroshock therapy one too many times? It's hard to say. Miles, if you're out there, come home. Just come home.