This month marks a decade of blogging.

Chalk it up to a pinch of OCD that I’ve managed to not miss a month (even last month) without a post over the past ten years.

Your gift to me on this occasion, should you agree to, is to allow me one more post of the kind to follow.

Once, I disdained (but without so much as a whiff of snottiness, mind you) personal health-related posts on blogs.  Then, it appears to me, a tsunami of them has appeared here.  I apologize for those, and this one, the absolute last of its kind.  Promise.

I don’t recognize myself.  Stephen tells me that his understanding is that some people never ‘recover’ from anesthesia, of which I’ve had two authentic and two ‘twilight’ during the past two years.

Of course, this could be the onset of dementia, or maybe just garden-variety depression, which is enhanced by means of reading articles positing things like if you’re younger than sixty, you will witness the eventual collapse of western civilization.

Maybe it’s just that some of my cherished demons have jumped ship, and their absence is confusing me.  I’m out of ideas.

I’ve treated my blogmates shabbily over the past year at least, and the siren song of abandoning this blogging enterprise is never completely out of earshot.  I wish I were a natural writer like those bloggers, but writing is a pinch-of-OCD chore.

Domani Dave will endure, I suspect, but I see continued slim pickings.

Oh, by the way, blame Michael for this blog having been planted in the first place.  He’ll inspire you at the start, then continue to write sumptuous blog entries making you feel inadequate.  Curse him.