In Swoops the Faux

From this angle, last calendar's not particularly impressive total of one-hundred and thirty-three seems all but unattainable, especially in lieu of the as-of-then twelve I've amassed thus far, but, like numerous proclamations before me, none of which, you'll remember, were achieved, I'm going to throw reasonable facts to rot and have another half-arse. Theoretically, an average one-a-day henceforth will actually surpass that number, and even two-thousand and five's superior effort. Realistically, it's black-board clawing.

Incidentally, this goal, like its ancestors, has nothing whatsoever to do with quality. As I've stressed numerous times before, it really is irredeemable on those grounds. Quantity, quantity, quantity: that's how you really waste time — and yes, that verb was conjured to simultaneously evoke a bazooka and a filthy blonde's bedroom habit. Come January, and this'll delete easy.