I find myself often driven by two engines in composing this blog. One of these engines is my consciousness of having readers. I know people are reading this (look, there you are!) and I want what I write to arrive intelligibly and clearly. I hope to weed out the grammatical errors that aren't there on purpose. I seek to entertain. I want what I say to mean something, to reach across the universe of dark matter that swallows consciousness, to click into place like the sprocket of some exquisite machine and then bloom like a cherry tree in the best of all possible springs, or like a swath of luminescent poisonous mushrooms under a new moon. Either way. I don't want to embarrass myself with ungainly and bloodless confessions, hurt anyone's feelings out of my own unexamined pique, or spin out into the tangents that I know from talking about in waking life cause people to fidget horribly. Oh it's horrible when they fidget horribly!
This engine is helpful in letting me write from a deeper and more present place in myself, write with respect, and in giving me the confidence to wildly and righteously resent the entire Internet in a way I might like you to understand, but urge you not to.
The other engine that frequently drives this blog is my consciousness of the vast billions of people who do not read it. They give me the feeling that I can write everything. They free me from having to be appealing. They are an audience of criminals, of people beyond the pale, of something that cannot be touched or broken and they untether my blog from all the normal laws of the universe. I hate them all. And my debt is as great to them, as it is to you.