I confess. I have not been blogging up to my own high, exacting standards lately. I’ve been taking the easy way out with pictures, videos, and ridiculous lists. I have about five partially done posts rotting away in my archives, waiting to be made whole. But everytime I sit down to finish them, or start somthing new, every interesting or creative thought seems to flee my frontal lobe like the French scurring from the German onslaught. (Is that the creative part of the brain? The frontal lobe, not the German onslaught.) One of the advantages of having a petite readership, in number of readers not actual physical size, not that I’m saying anyone is fat, because it’s the Internet so how would I know that, is that I don’t ever feel too bad about letting them down. But to those of you who do frequent, my apologies. Hey, wait a minute. Why should I apologize to you? I’m providing a free service, toiling for hours to come up with some witty or clever or informative thing to say, for which I receive nothing in return but the occasional satisfaction that I was able to create something that moved someone enough to feel that it warranted taking an extra 23 seconds out of their day to leave a comment. That and the fleeting fulfillment that comes with seeing your own words published on the World Wide Web, until you realize that any two-bit knucklehead with an Internet connection or a library card can have his/her words published on the World Wide Web and most of them do (case in point). So you know what? I take back my apology. If there isn’t enough activity here on Life of Ando to slake your thirst for forced humor and sophmoric social analysis, go and find yourself another blog. Wait! Please don’t go! What have I done! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean any of that. No one hassled me about more posts. It’s not your fault. Please don’t go. I was wrong, I’m always wrong. It’s just…you don’t know the pressure. The pressure to maintain relevant in a sea of blogs is devastating. It’s like carrying Dom Deluise on your shoulders while walking through knee-deep snow drifts, and all the while he’s whistling the theme from Welcome Back Kotter. It just pushes you further and further down and takes away your will to live. It’s the stress. It just got to me for a second. Please, please, please don’t leave me. I’ll be crushed. Thank you. Oh, thank you so much. You won’t be sorry. You’ll see. You won’t be sorry. I’ve got some good stuff coming, really good stuff. It’ll be great I promise. Oh, faithful reader, a pox upon me for ever treating you with such scorn and disdain. I beg for your forgivness. A pardon. A repreive. Thanks for the second chance.