P.S. to my previous blog

In my last blog, I made a comment about women that I was immediately (and still) to regret, not because I think it was untrue, but because it will most likely come across as ungracious. I meant it as jest, a comment on the irony of the disparity between my own inclinations and those of most women I know when it comes to recounting life's "impressively broad spectrum[s] of banalities." I think it's funny that I should find such a thing so immediately unappealing and unnatural, when most women come across the skill of telling and retelling what are to me life's most unforgivingly boring chapters as if it had been wound into the fiber of their being--and I find it particularly ironic that I, a once-staunch watch-dog and yard-hound against all such phatic talk, have, through the agency and devious plottings of such women, found myself, alas, hopelessly, fatally longing to someday have just such an advocate and provocateur of life's boring monotony, its insipid, homey, warmly coazing stream, by my side, officially and until I die.

So please try not to take offense. I, jester, take aim firstly at myself.