Annual competition

I have long been a competitive type; much more competitive than you in fact. And this recent bout of VVD (virtual verbal diarrhoea) has its roots in that primitive drive. You see, I was scanning my blog, proudly surveying my work, and it struck me that I was more prolific in my past. As I write this, there are only 8 pieces from 2011; yet there are 11 from 2010. So I am competing for myself, with myself, and by myself. (Not that I would ever claim to have anything on Mr. Lincoln).

All this makes me rather sad. And it is hardly a fair competition either. Currently, I am furiously typing away, striving to close that post-gap. Soon, I hope, I will have overtaken 2010, a year I never liked anyway. But any race must have two runners. Otherwise, if one is immobile or dead, the result is necessarily unjust. So to appease my conscience, I must accept a handicap. Only then can I claim true victory. (That's a lie; I would happily do so anyway). The only problem with a handicap is that I am, as a writer, so immature (or crippled) already that any further disruption would yield a totally unsatisfactory (or even illegible) product. This is no mere scaremongering. This is an accurate reflection of my unquenchable desire to better my previous attempts, even if they cannot respond or laud my spectacularly modest achievement.

YES. I WIN.

(according to independent reports)