Woman of Steel...Tin...Tinfoil...Okay, Gum Wrapper.
In my desperate, trapped-weasel-like desire to avoid (a) defrosting my freezer, (b) writing, (c) drinking vast quantities of Canadian Mist, I find myself actually answering feedback e-mail today. I feel like Superman, you know, that one time he flew around the world and reversed its rotation and turned back time. It goes against the entire natural order of things! Or, in this case, the natural slothful direction of my habits.
I've diminished my immediate backlog and reached the embarrassing point--late December--beyond which all replies take on the brilliant rosy tint of mortification. Of course, it's not until I hit mail for, say, June that it will become truly excruciating. When I hit 2001, I think replies actually might become more offensive than silence.