I have this swirling, pessimistic algorithm I use. It’s called the “bail of hay” theory. In summation:
- I’m driving a convertible along Route 66
- Overhead, a C-130 drops a bail of hay from altitude.
- Said bail of hay’s trajectory meets that of said convertible–perfectly.
It’s sort of like Murphy’s Law, but it’s one I tend to internalize more.
Such is the case with now. Whatever kind of seething, nether-wraith from the ninth pit decided it would be most swell to hit me with this OCD–invoking anachronism knows good and well what it’s doing:
Sure sure. I’m aware that not every sequestered man of the cloth has lept of the white cliffs of Benedictine poverty, but c’mon. An iPad? I can’t write now. St. Augustine’s probably scouting Limewire for “sweet flows.” I simply do not have the compartmentalist talent to ply my trade with such conflicting worlds.
And besides. He’s probably reading my blog.