The lives of other people fascinate me. I mean, really, that’s why I read as many blogs as I do. If you’re coming here, chances are you’re just as voyeuristic as I am. I’m of the belief that the main reason blogs have become so popular is the cavernous need, arguably perverted, to live for just a moment in the minds of others.
What I am often troubled by is that anyone besides my girlfriend, the red queen, reads what I write here. There are lives being lead that are much more interesting than mine. I mean my typical day goes a little something like this:
- Wake up to the automatic coffee maker alarm going off.
- Drink myself awake.
- Write (either for this blog or for my publisher).
- Go to the beach or for a walk. Sometimes I even go to the beach for a walk.
- Encounter interesting people and usually, if things go as planned, insult them.
That’s it. Not much to it, yet people return here like swallows to capistrano. Don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate the loyalty and the attention. But I am a bit confused as to why anyone would bother. Maybe they expect me to write something worthy of their (really your) attention. They’ve (you) been waiting for a long time now and I would imagine, they (again, you) are probably getting rather discouraged. All I really ever do is explain how difficult I am and the various things that make me a bitter old fat balding man who just happens to live on an island that is the most remote (geographically speaking) place on Earth.