Shit to diesel is in the works. I think that’s neat and all, but what happens if two amorous bugs — or one scandalously licentious bug running from home with a bazillion eggs growing in her from her night of passion with Johnny, after he promised to pull out — escape?
Compared to the studied seduction of the novel, blogging is literary pole dancing. Anyone can stand naked in the window of the public’s eye, anyone can twitch and writhe and emote over the package that was not delivered, the dinner that burned, the friend who forgot your birthday. That is not fiction. That is life, and we all have one. Blogging condemns us to live everyone else’s tedious day as well as our own.
Would it be missing the point to write a deep analysis of this?
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry