Call Alanis Morissette. This is Ironic.

It occurs to me that I mentioned Shayla the other day but I haven't yet told you a story about her. It's not because I don't have one to tell; I do, and it's called "Shayla Worked in a Factory," from the Blondie song, and I'll tell it to you soon; and maybe I'll also tell you the story about how my phone rang at 3:00 a.m. one night last week and I answered it because the only person who ever calls me in the middle of the night is Jack, and, well, the whole Internet knows how I feel about him, but it wasn't Jack, it was Ashton, who is turning out to be more trouble than he's worth. And maybe I'll tell you about my friend Carl's birthday party last Sunday, when a bunch of us spent the day driving around Toronto in a limousine, brew pub hopping.

It's because of all these things and, too, the fact that my progression exam for my PhD thesis is looming in a few weeks, that I don't have time to write a proper story for you, Gentle Reader. And I'm so behind in my marking I may have a nervous breakdown before the end of the semester, and it's all because of my 125 fucking students, and that's an adjective, not a verb.

The next story is not a story at all, but another apology.