Extra Special Bitter

Once upon a time, I had what I thought was a blog on my website, only to be told that I was doing it all wrong. Is there a wrong way to step up onto a soapbox and rant? Apparently so.

On the other hand, I'm much too self-conscious to rant effectively. At best I will offer wry editorial commentary punctuated with impressionistic observations, none of which, I would surmise, is blog material.

So what am I seeking in my little corner of cyberspace? It's a place to capture thoughts in words, a notebook of sorts. But it's more than that, because it's visible to the eyes of strangers: it's on-line. Is that what makes it different? To be an exhibitionist among voyeurs?

I was once a happy man, but bruised and bitter, the core of an apple browning on the sidewalk, I couldn't stay my sighs to halt a herd of cattle. A mouse sniffs at the bait in the trap, knowing that something is wrong but powerless to resist. Something borrowed, something kissed. Before you can ask for her phone number, the trap is sprung. Something empty, something young.

Automatically writing, he righted himself, automatically. Let the games begin.