ain’t nothing going on but me.

I set up a blog on my site many months ago. This fact evades me day after day. Truth is, I don’t really “do” blogs. My life is not nearly interesting enough to warrant a commentary for faceless unknowns to follow in a zombie-like state, like an even duller version of The X Factor. Neither, I postulate, is yours. I’m vehemently anti-myspace, and consider internet clichés like personality quizzes and embedded mp3s about as useful and enchanting as cancer of the colon. My stance will not be altered by the opportunity to display myself as having 684 ‘friends’, nor the ability to force upon you not only the in-depth angst-ridden nonchalance of my being, but my tastes in music and movies along with it.

And so the question begs itself: why post? History would dictate that there is certainly no worldwide demand for such a thing. Yet millions of people worldwide provide us with a daily insight into the insightless realm of the broken pencil-like tribulations of their day-to-day existence. Why should I join the ever-growing throng and disclose the ever-more banal life experiences that will spawn only inside jokes and memetic apathy? O RLY?

The obvious answer leaps to mind: I haven’t posted. For 7 glorious months this blog has celebrated taciturn inertia: a gentle otiosity akin to turning off your television and removing yourself from the arena of purposeless frivolity. The facility to communicate may abide, yet you are not burdened with the meandering droolings of a plain and shallow subsistence that serves only to increase the length and girth of my internet penis. This fact needs no celebration – the festival is in the silence.

Do I have ample and firm breasts? Perhaps I do. Am I willing to take grainy stills of said breasts and paste them for the world to see so that the great unloved can bless me with barely legible, acronym-infested, quasi-flirtatious compliments via an overly-complex comments and rating system? Perhaps not. Do I have a furtive desperation for needless attention to be lavished upon me? Apparently so. This is a blog entry, after all. Does the average blog reader appreciate prosaic, loquacious melancholy and endless rhetorical questions that I myself answer regardless? Not on your life.

Apparently I’m meant to finish up with some pictures: a random smattering of pictorial evidence of the humdrum routine that you may refer to as my life. I wouldn’t want to shit all over industry standards now, would I? I’m no revolutionary. I am not unique. I have no special talents. I merely claim to surpass mediocrity in a couple of fields that are of interest to myself and of relative indifference to anybody witless enough to feel the need to pry. Enjoy my average fare. It is of no consequence; it is not worthy of your attention; and yet here I am, for all the world to see.

And thus the internet fits me like a well-used latex glove. The terrorists win.