By mid-year, I have produced more than six-hundred pieces of writing and close to ninety-thousand words. I have written more than a hundred pieces more than in the same period last year, which was a record year, but about the same number of words. Although my writings are shrinking in size, they are increasing in number by an appreciable margin. A new all-time record is in my hands. Hooray! I am kidding, of course. This is but a lament. Just like last year on this date, I feel mortified by my proclivities (“The Idiot Triumphant,” June 30, 2011). Quantity is all that apparently matters to me, while quality is other people’s business. As far as I am concerned, it is of no consequence whatsoever. No matter how much I castigate myself, and no matter how much I expose myself to ridicule, my proclivities are so well entrenched that they are past repair. The best I can do at this point is trust that new records will soon be beyond my reach. Then, and only then, will I cease boasting about my pitiful triumphs and focus on what I can actually achieve. Write better.