Local track record around here for stupidity outranks the span of infinity itself- think of the kid who stopped writing because he had hurt his foot.
Chalk it up to idiosyncratic wit or lack of it, then Icarus fell not with proud wings of wax (melted) but with feet of clay. Superboy here stands corrected and admits to having a foot of clay or three after all, who would´ve thought.
Perfection is so hard to come by these days and I- Ubermensch-to-be as I am- am no exception to the rule.

Once upon a time- and what a time it was- I was so high on Jack Kerouac & stuff and I thought Hey I can do this and started writing all kinds of things through the nights and… Do you remember I once told you about a week just before I went back home for the Holidays, that last week before Christmas still a few months before the first time we kissed on a fancy restaurant over chocolate milk shakes and jokes cracked at random about Aquaman on Cartoon Network on TV right then & there? I was trying so hard to be funny and to make you laugh (terrific smile, by the way) and you were just standing there the queen of instant Internet messaging. It was your birthday. I told you a secret, I told you about that very week a few months back in which I had spent all my money on The Catcher in the Rye and had to survive strictly on bread and water until Friday came along- you had just asked about my favorite book, or that´s the way I remember it now- whamm!, from Salinger to Kerouac to more Salinger & on to sorrow in a heartbeat. My heart beat faster when we kissed, re-issued beat boys of the 1950s sitting on pocket books in plastic handbags under our chairs with the odd Uncanny X-Men piece or two.
(It was raining that evening and it was vol. II of the black & white Essential X-Men compendium. Such is the stuff of memory.)

In a way College was like coming home from Vietnam sans much of the napalm burns. You read about ´em vets saying that they half-wish to be back in Vietnam just to wish to be back home again-- It was a foul time of lost people and losing people at the same time. In a crazy kind of way- and this is me speaking through a purely masochistic medium- I wish I were in College again. One wonders what the hell´s happened to the promise of a pristine 21st century.

But I digress.
Schroedinger´s cat is out of the bag again & we´re back.
Could be worse.

“At least, she thinks, she does not read mysteries or romance.”
[from The Hours, by Michael Cunningham, 1998]

Back tomorrow for more.