Blogger’s Remorse

I woke with a weighty sensation — I was united in holy matrimony with a brand new blog and wasn’t sure if I could handle the commitment. Considering that I have had something to say on every subject since the dawn of time, one would think that a forum for saying whatever I want, whenever I want would be a soft snap. But no, talking is easy, writing is work. And I have spent a lifetime in skilful avoidance of work. I could say it started innocently, but in fact, it happened in a rush. 

I was chatting with my mother —one of those late night chats that awake the latent philosopher in the layman and are so perilous to the soul— when some unthinking remark of mine, now lost to history, was interrupted by an explosion of laughter from my elder and better. “You could be the Wicked Wit of the West!!” Someone mentioned screen alias, someone used the word blog, a dare arose, and I rushed in where angels fear to tread. In a hot-headed whirl of about twenty minutes I had a concept, a domain, an expectation, and someone to blame for the whole thing.

And now, Gentle Reader, you are stuck with it. Please do not be misled by the word Wit. There are few social crimes so great as trying to be funny and failing; I know, I have tried, I have failed, I will try no more. I am not funny —what I am, is frequently amused. I may yet fail to amuse you, Gentle Reader, the legendary litmus test of interest, but I promise to provide at least what has amused me. In an internet proliferate with people’s dislikes, expressed with a great deal of precision and very little grammar, perhaps this alone is a worthy goal. I promise only this: never to take anything seriously.

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