Not even a bloggable idea

The blog has been a good way to force myself into semi-public writing. It is pretty obscure. I can count only five distinct visitors to my little corner of the Internet. This should afford me some cover of anonymity to write what's on my mind. Not so much.

I don't even have a reader to offend.

My number one fan is my husband. This is really nice. It's almost an additional line of communication with him. Spousal support is key to any endeavour and whatnot.

My mom has visited at least once, although her dial-up web access keeps her a less avid reader than she was of my diary during high school.

Two others have made comments and one mysterious person used the instant ranking button "funny".

So when I come across a few nights when I have no ideas even worthy of a blog post, I should try something edgy or controversial. The five people might even enjoy it. Instead, blogging has in some respects, taken the place of my infrequent journal entries. It's an electronic version of the stack of handwritten books no one will ever want to read.

But people could theoretically read it. I even make limited efforts to get people to read it. But I don't even read other people's blogs. I have Internet article attention deficit. I can handle one or two paragraphs and then I'm nearly bored to death. I can only imagine my article about figuring out what to make for dinner making someone want to jab their eyes out in the glow of their computer screen.

Tonight was one of the nights I couldn't muster enough rage to rant about my hate of smokers or complain about America's political process. I just killed some time without even a single bloggable idea.

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