First off, I’m terrifically sorry.  I said that I would write an article, I gave a word count, and I said that getting it in by the deadline wouldn’t be a problem; I was wrong.  Here I stand, caught with my proverbial pants down, and boy do I feel like a turd.

It all started when I was born.  Well, ok, it really all started when Craig asked me if I wanted to write an article for this issue.  Damned fool that I am, I readily said yes.  “I’ve written articles before,” I thought to myself.  “I do this all the time.  I once wrote four in a single wine-drunk evening.  One article, 250 words?  Peanuts.  Just peanuts.”  That was two weeks ago.  Here I sit, 251 words shy of my promised total, and what do I have to show for it?  Two likely failed midterms, a real nasty heroin addiction, and another season of American Horror Story under my belt.  Sometimes I’m sorry most of all for myself

How hard can it be to write an article?  Permettemi per dirti, lettore, può essere difficile. Quite difficult.  Some days I liken it to riding a horse, but sometimes I liken it to riding a horse with no legs that’s also a dead horse.  These past weeks have been dead horse kinds of weeks.  I’ll sit down to write an article, and I’ll end up one of three places: a. on my phone, b. on Netflix, or c. violently convulsing in seizures that don’t seem to have plagued me until I put on that necklace that said it was cursed.  Maybe it was cursed.  I’ve never felt the touch of a woman.  There are no fewer than five Word documents on my desktop, each filled with little more than increasingly desperate attempts at funny titles of articles that you and I both know will never be written.  One of them contains the words “Local Mom Discovers” and not a thing besides.  Local Mom Discovers What?  I’ll sure as shit never know.  The mom might know, but she’s probably dead by now.

Jess has just texted me, reminding me that I promised an article and haven’t yet written it.  I know, Jez.  I know I’ve failed you.

In closing, vorrei offrire un’altra scusa, to Craig, to Jess, to our readership of 17, and to the Lord himself.  I am humbled before you (mostly Craig but also the Lord a bit I guess).  I would promise to not fail you again, but what are promises but empty words when emitted from the mouth of a degenerate like myself?  Carry on without me.  You’ll all be better off.

*jazz hands*