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Totally meaningless statistics.

Since the start, I've written 365,910 words in this thing, not counting this post.

If we still went by the "typewritten page" standard (man, I totally want a USB printer that's actually a Smith Corona manual typewriter that types itself) of 250 words a page, that 1,463 pages, plus a little bit.

There are essayists in American History that are revered and extolled, to the point that Freshmen in College are forced to read them years after the essays are relevant, that didn't write so much as 500 pages in their entire career.

I am not getting paid for this.

Just, you know, for the record.


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Yeah, but Ralph Waldo Emerson's insights into Identity Crisis really have stood the test of time.

You know, I seriously know how to run off at the mouth, and my numbers are only 48,443 words and 193.772 pages. And I started four months before you. Man, you are a crazy-ass writing machine.

Heh. By this time next year, every other snark will be:

"WHAT? You don't think I got a life outside of this blog? You'll get an update when I'm damned well ready, AND YOU'LL LOVE IT!"

But--but--THE LOVE, man! The love!

Ray -- Emerson's thoughts on Identity Crisis are lauded, but for my money the American Romantics' opinions of DC are biased and flawed. Thoreau's advocacy of a return to "simple continuity, based upon the blessings of a simple nature and a single universe without such frippancies as Hypertime or an Earth where the Crime Syndicate of America rules" shows not a purity of vision but an intentional hamstringing of editorial content.

Of course, as you get later in the century, you discover their inheritors were Marvel Zombies. Walt Whitman is still my favorite, as his stirring elegy to Captain America can still bring chills to me:

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weatheríd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! 5 O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Frozen in an iceberg until at least 1964. If we don't count the anticommunist pretender from the '50s And his sidekick, that bastard Nomad, seriously, whose idea was that?

Alexander -- yeah, you're slacking off. I mean, you're just writing essays, editing a major online journal of thought and review, producing a webcomic and advocating for Independent Comics. Step it up a little, will you?

And, you're still dragging yourself to the page e'en through a forest of intestinal pain. The Snark must go on!

Seriously, take care of yourself, Eric, and hope you feel better soon.

. o O (..."forest of intestinal pain"?)

Eric -- sure, all that's well and good, but none of it satisfies my *number* fixation! An honestly, of late, I've mostly just been doing homework. Aside from GNR, anyway. Next few months should afford me the opportunity to get some real work done though.

Okay, given my obsession with 19th-century literature and with modern comic books, I now feel an overwhelming urge to either marry you or kill you (you will be pleased to note that both urges have been thus far resisted). That was brilliant.

Also, holy crap you've written a lot.
Although you should stop, for now, and go sleep your way to health.

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