It's a sickness.
I just finished revising a particularly tricky bit of the novel (it's been taunting me for the better part of three months), so I rewarded myself with a little stroll through the internet. As it so often does, my stroll took in Miss Snark's blog. Yeah, I know, it's almost ten years old at this point, but a lot of it is still both educational and entertaining. Besides, reading through ancient internet scuffles that I've never heard of is a nice reminder of how fast things blow over.
It's also a nice reminder of how permanent the internet is, whatever we like to think to the contrary. No matter how obscure the dust-up, Google and the Wayback Machine have managed to find me enough details to be titillating (a word that always makes my inner twelve-year-old giggle). No bloviating goes unrecorded, no idiocy passes without being enshrined in the wonderfulness that is the cache.
Today's example was no exception, though it proved more recalcitrant than most: some young idiot...errr, intern...at McAdams/Cage made some poorly thought-out comments on his blog, which someone then linked to in the comment trail on a post about agently nastiness. My curiosity was piqued by the, well, pique on display in the comments, so off I went. It took a good bit of searching, and I only ever found references to the posts. Even the Wayback Machine has failed me this time. I get only a coy glimpse through a GalleyCat article, without ever getting to see the whole thing. I blew the better part of thirty minutes trying various searches on various sites, with no luck.
At which point I realized that I'd just spent the better part of thirty minutes combing the internet for something that would almost certainly piss me off if I found it. What? Why? I don't have enough stress in my life? Truly, a deadly combination of rubbernecking and "I've been challenged, I will find it!"
So yes. Off to find something a little more productive to do with my time. Like revise the remaining third of my novel, or write that short story that's been floating in my head, or work on the other novel. Or, hell, fold some laundry, do the dishes, or just go to bed at a decent hour. The possibilities are endless! And probably a lot better for my blood pressure.