Well, crap.
Let's get metaphorical for a minute. Imagine there's a little house sitting next to some active train tracks. On the train track side of the house there's a set of built in shelves. Sitting on one of the shelves is a large bottle filled with layers of colored sand. When a train goes past on the tracks, the bottle of sand jostles around on the shelf --sometimes closer to the edge, sometimes in the other direction. Occasionally the inhabitants of this little house will poke the bottle back from the edge, but it isn't considered particularly important.
Late last week, this metaphorical bottle of sand on its metaphorical shelf in its metaphorical house finally fell off the shelf. It shattered and sent colored sand everywhere. There was much cursing, yelling and blaming of trains. It was neither unexpected nor tragic. The glass needs to be swept up, the sand is a pain and we'll be finding it in impossible places for months.
Sorry if I'm unreliable or grumpy. I'm sweeping up sand.
Late last week, this metaphorical bottle of sand on its metaphorical shelf in its metaphorical house finally fell off the shelf. It shattered and sent colored sand everywhere. There was much cursing, yelling and blaming of trains. It was neither unexpected nor tragic. The glass needs to be swept up, the sand is a pain and we'll be finding it in impossible places for months.
Sorry if I'm unreliable or grumpy. I'm sweeping up sand.