Tuesday 2nd December
Spent the morning primping and preening in front of my computer screen,
where I brushed my teeth and applied pomade, dutifully awaiting the email
that confirms me as Internet Diarist of the Year. Sure, there are all
manner of ghastly navel-gazing bloggers telling us whether it was Cheerios
or Corn Chex yesterday, or how they washed their Jetta in the driveway,
and no end of me-me-me chroniclers of their boring days cheering on Gov.
Dean at their self-named websites, but really, there can be only one
choice. The morning drags on somewhat while I wait for the telltale ding
of a new email. Ding after ding after ding is heard, true, but these have
apparently been intended for a former address-holder with male pattern
baldness and a smaller-than-normal schmekl. There must be a server down
somewhere between me and the committee. I can't sit here all day awaiting
inevitable e-glory. Those horses at the racetrack don't bet on
themselves, you know.