We lament to inform you that we will be both dour and dormant for the month of November due to the fact of our directing our acrimonious attention and withering words to the writing of a novel. November, as you may or may not know, is National Novel Writing Month, and while it would be difficult to think of something that runs more counter to our nature than being a team player, sometimes even the most recalcitrant contrarian gets sore gills from swimming exclusively upstream. And while we could attempt to poise our poison pen to maintain this baleful blog and spew a bare minimum of 50,000 words of petulant prose in thirty days, we fear the scope of such an endeavor would leave us even more bubbling over with bile than we currently are. Furthermore and moreover, our posts would be apt to resemble the following:
Go to the store (which you, as a solo diner, are far too entrenched in social entropy to have the energy to do). Purchase something that roughly translates to edible. We shall take edible to mean herein, “not requiring the pumping of one’s stomach.” Return to your desolate den and inadequately reheat your purchase. Wolf down and contemplate the parallels between your tepid dinner and your lukewarm existence.
Which, let’s face it, dearish reader, is not particularly illuminating or instructive.
In light of the above, we look forward to crafting further curmudgeonly kitchen chronicles when the winter of our discontent extends beyond the figurative to the literal.
We would also like to bring to your attention that our (not so) distant relative (the one of which are slightly—or more than slightly—embarrassed) will continue to clutter the blogosphere here: