High Eight Us

Hiatus.
Spiffo word that one. Say it a few times in a row, say it few more after that, and as the syllables start to roll off your tongue with rabid haste, it just sounds plain weird. However the word hiatus is central to the following confessional.
It has come to my attention through esteemed colleague in literary shadiness, Buckmaster that it has indeed been not one, not two, but THREE long months since my last blog posting. Quite frankly, I was dumbfounded as to this revelation. Where on earth had these three months gone and how had I managed to ferret them away with little to no attention to the continuity of the juicy minutiae of life? I was certain that life had gotten no less juicy - colder perhaps, but still swarming, bulging thick and rife with minutiae of the juiciest blend. It seemed that time had simply gotten away, eluding me as I got comfier and comfier dozing away on my laurels, jamming the time choc full with certain nondescript ferreting. I’d neglected the breakfast and the dog that laid claim to it, and though critically undernourished, it lives. Let it be known that Time as the bringer of death itself has failed to achieve its ultimate expression in this regard. The Death According to Dool? A premature prognosis, surely. The extended, accidental hiatus according to Dool? Quite possibly.

For the sake of pedantic clarity do not be confused into thinking that I have contracted a three month natural fissure, cleft or foramen in a bone or other structure (thanks Dictionary.com). The hiatus that I refer to is this very break in the continuity of the work, series and action – this here dog’s breakfast compendium, this précis gospel on life itself.

For posterity, I declare this accidental hiatus over and hereby enact a new chapter in the life and times of the Doolblog.
A fresh fisting of juice, a smorgasbord of minutiae, a fat fried literary breakfast and a brand new juiced up dog to go with it.