As Luck Would Have It...

Dearest Interstitial Interwebbery,

It dost now seem as though in my presumptuous haste I did, in fact, reset Mozilla in some way that hast made me too succumb to the same company proxyfoolery my co-working breathren alone were dealt several fortnights ago.  Without The Book of Faces it might suffice to stream Netflixwise alone, especially in light of Portlandia Season 3's recent, if fleeting, parlayance in my queue, but yea, it too were smote.

And so, with all my former presumption in tact, I shall return hereto as though no time hath past, as though I did not abandon ye.  Look yonder, there! Darryl Hall doth, indeed say, "It isn't so." Perhaps it will allay that though I briefly did layest my words down upon others, never was it an act so satisfactory as to repeat, and so it is within all I deem apropos to lay my laissez a fair literary head upon your bosom and beseech ye to welcome me with open arms when I, on the Days of Saturn and the Sun, shall, after having been bored out of my utter skull, take a rest from the grading of eternal papers to bitch and moan and bitch and moan and pretend again in this I am not alone.

With a side of hasty pudding and the portent of much to sluttitudinally come, I shall again take leave for what I prayeth will be a shorter while than that for which we last were parted. 

Freida of the Bees