Sometimes the simplest stories are the ones most difficult to tell. I don’t know whether to blame it on my interesting newut morning regime, the continued adventures at LuthorCorp, the lurking desire to get out of the lumpy uncomfortable blue armchair and go play outside, or some other phenomenon bubbling below the surface of my consciousness, but I have never had such a clear idea of the story I want to tell, coupled with such a devil of a time actually telling it. I have performed the usual PTMYB rituals of going to my reference works, visiting our space-age friend the search engine, trying to remove my gaze from my own navel and consider a wider context, and every night for a solid week, I have been left high and dry, all words eluding me, all thoughts just out of my grasp, except for one: Hunza apricots are available for sale in New York City, and I am so happy that I could dance.
Alas, dear friends, this is all there is to tell of the tale, at least for today. I have just spent two hours finding the words and writing the post, only to see it disappear. Even as I thought I was saving every paragraph, everything but the first paragraph is gone. At the risk of sounding churlish and mean, I just do not have it in me to rewrite the whole thing, at least not now. I am trying to remain philosophical about this, but mainly I just want to set fire to my laptop. Maybe I should just take this as a sign that there are better topics at hand than an apricot I have been chasing for ten years.