London Calling…

I live in the vague hope that no-one reads this thing. Seriously. I mean, I have no intention of including personal shit about my life, but the opinionated ranting is stuff that would normally be confined to text files on my laptop, or scribbles in the journal I carry around. Any entries concerning what I have done that week/day/month, are pretty much for the benefit of, well, my mother. (Yes, I have a mother, it is a little known fact that I was not, in actuality, spawned from a union of demons). Hi mom, thanks for stopping by.

Yes, my mother reads the dreadful arrogant torrents that I spew here. Why? Because she knows me, and this is how I bloody talk. So really its not like my personality is coming as a shock to her. And personally, I think my mother is quite an exceptional person, not least to be able to put up with the rest of my family, a derogatory assessment in which I most certainly include myself. So I suppose its no surprise that she takes this, along with most of my oft random and occasionally insane endeavours, entirely in her stride. I just wish she didn’t expect me to keep emailing her as well… I mean, I can only write so much without my hands falling off.

I. Hate. Blogs. They suck. They are in the main badly written, badly presented, self-indulgent wank. I have no problems with people writing them. I have a huge problem with people expecting me to read them. Because I have to confess kids, they are fucking boring. What you did yesterday at the beach, while it works fine in a two-way real-time conversation, is in written form about as interesting as counting the hair follicles on my arm. In fact, in comparison, the hair follicles on my arm comprise an interesting frequency distribution analysis.

Aside from the subject matter, they are generally grammatically atrocious, and spelling is optional. Not to mention the fact that “bloggers� tend to treat punctuation like a ballistic weapon. They aim it in a vaguely correct direction, but it could end up absolutely anywhere. The combination of these issues means that I will never expect or particularly desire anyone to read this. Likewise, I will react badly if I am told to go read someone’s blog because I have asked how they are.

For the most part, people do not write well. The art of literature is dying a slow and painful death. But everyone thinks they are a giant of prose. Waxing lyrical about your soul and how its affected by the angle of light on the river evokes absolutely zero depth if your sentence structure was utter bollox. It jars my brain when a genuine insight is marred by bad representation. Its not the whiney emo content of blogs that pisses me off so much as the butchering of said content by sloppy thoughtless literary diarrhoea.

In summary, don’t read mine, and I won’t read yours. Or hell, read mine, whatever spanks your alligator.

This entry was posted on Friday, January 27th, 2006 at 5:28 pm and is filed under Rant. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.