What am I doing?
What makes me think I can write anything that isn't drivel, that isn't trite?

Nobody really reads this blog, so what does it matter if I write or not? The only people who do read it, besides my friends, hardly ever bother to comment - these faceless, nameless people read my thoughts, look at pictures of my life and tiptoe out again, on their way to looking into someone else's window.

I used to do some of it as well, before I started writing; before Flutter asked all of us to delurk at her site. Then I realized just how rude it was, like rifling through someone's underwear drawer, reading their innermost thoughts and not making yourself known. Maybe that's the thrill - maybe you don't like having an accusatory finger pointed at you, but what you like or want doesn't enter into it, if you are nothing but a shadow.

Maybe you're someone who can relate to what I write, maybe you're some creepy pervert who's ogling my children - its hard to tell. Maybe I have just pissed you off - again, I have no way of knowing, so its really hard to give a damn.