I have a blog. A blog is made specifically to be public. But if I’m honest, I am a bit uneasy at having it listed on a website. Basically, yes, it’s here to be read, but I’d rather have vague friends telling me they read it when they only look at the pictures, when, ironically, manky skangers are the only ones to read it, specifically to see what a weirdo I am.
I realize that I love reading, but, ironically, the better I am at it, the less time I have to do it recreationally.
I keep doing this, and I keep posting the link to Facebook, but, ironically, no-one reads it in any case. Maybe it says more about me than the non-readers that I see their apathy towards me as “ironic” rather than “suicidally depressing”, or something, possibly more gently, along the lines of the latter.
Now I’m reading “Mostly Harmless” while playing with a tennis ball. The dog just took the “mostly harmless” tennis ball and almost died choking on it. The word irony has now lost all meaning, with the thought behind it is still stinging the labrador.
