I am blogger, here me bore

Clever, yes? . . .No?
Then you can go to hell.
I, for one, have been impressed with myself for nigh on twenty years, undaunted not by the onus of my genius, but inspired by my creativity, and my ability to utilate such scarce words as “nigh”, “onus”, and “undaunted” (got that one here). So yes, even without your agreement, I know. I am clever. Hence, I blog. Without readers. Which is fine by me.

Actually, I would have stuck with my journal, but my mother kept reading it. Now, I keep my drag queen fantasies to myself (and they are just fantasies), and I’ve hidden myself online, where mother can’t find me.

My journal, my “blog,” is my private space to write down my thoughts. I am not here looking for fame, or attention, or validation. I mean, God knows all of my public attempts at having my genius validated have failed. From my “bedroom community performance art” (the bourgeoisie is still not ready for public nudity), to my attempts at stand-up comedy (a whole goddam room full of hecklers!), to my meteoric rise through the ranks of the Democratic party (going door-to-door makes my feet hurt, and making cold calls makes me stutter), I have encountered the universal resistance of the masses to accepting my brilliance. So, fuck you, masses, I have a blog now, and I don’t care if you show up. I’m in this for my own enrichment and enjoyment, and, for the eventual day that I am discovered, and asked to write a novel, which will be about a blogger who is discovered and writes a novel, or something on that level of originality. So, I blog, without the aid of friends, or links, or fictional instructional video, but with my pure heart, my chaste soul, and my disdain for all of those bloggers who “make an effort” to “get readers”, because I have found that disdain is the best way to mask resentment.