I've switched off comments until I work out how to convince comment spammers that sexual self-sufficiency is no great qualification in this life. Or the hereafter.
That is all, other than to say that I notice that my past blogging prolificity continues to fade with the half life of depleted unranium only to have been replaced with the kind of mono-syllabic stream of unconciousness hooey that attempts, and fails, to pass itself off as 'content' to coin a rather uncool label.
In other words, I appear to have turned into quite a boring old f**ker, eternally tongue tied and lobotomised like those drooling fur-clad souls in The Planet of the Apes, original flavour. The source of my literary dysfunction is hard to pinpoint other than to approximate its cause at the door of my ever closing audience of friends and associates with whom I have something of a problem in sharing my more intimate and personal thoughts.
I can share intimate stupidities with strangers who live eight thousand miles away for there's nary a chance I'll actually bump into them at the coffee machine the following day whereupon I may be forced to account for my output. And, ironcially, a pseudonym solution feels too much like defeat for personal freedom of expression and therefore what happens is subconcious self-censorship induced verbal constipation.
Which sounds like a great name for a weblog.
That is all, other than to say that I notice that my past blogging prolificity continues to fade with the half life of depleted unranium only to have been replaced with the kind of mono-syllabic stream of unconciousness hooey that attempts, and fails, to pass itself off as 'content' to coin a rather uncool label.
In other words, I appear to have turned into quite a boring old f**ker, eternally tongue tied and lobotomised like those drooling fur-clad souls in The Planet of the Apes, original flavour. The source of my literary dysfunction is hard to pinpoint other than to approximate its cause at the door of my ever closing audience of friends and associates with whom I have something of a problem in sharing my more intimate and personal thoughts.
I can share intimate stupidities with strangers who live eight thousand miles away for there's nary a chance I'll actually bump into them at the coffee machine the following day whereupon I may be forced to account for my output. And, ironcially, a pseudonym solution feels too much like defeat for personal freedom of expression and therefore what happens is subconcious self-censorship induced verbal constipation.
Which sounds like a great name for a weblog.