I am such a rubbish at this blog malarkey

I've never got the hang of quite how this is meant to be done. Just so I'm straight on a few things: people without real friends sit, calcifying their retinas with each moment they spend gazing into the blank radiation of a computer screen, thinking that their observations, or pain, or poor attempts at humour are something the whole world is lacking? Do these people really imagine that people across the world rush home from work every day in order to discover which other girl they spent half an hour looking at in a coffee shop the other day as she failed to notice, until she was distinctly unimpressed by their "Programmers do it all night long, preferably with a can of Jolt and a huge amount of downloaded pornography" T-shirt?

I don't care. I just don't give even the slightest iota of a scintilla of a shit. Ream me sideways with a screwdriver if I ever think that what I really need to do with my life is find out, in 5000 words, why a teenager in Idaho thinks Korn rule, or who else is going in Carina's Book of People I Really Hate (vol. 7).

Not only is it offensive to my sensibilities, but it's physically embarrassing how shameless these people are. Just the words "I found something out today" bring me out in hives and send my skin scuttling off my back and into the corner. People are meant to have secrets.

You're not that interesting. Your impotence, your failure to relate to people who exist in a world you loathe having to deal with except to get groceries and cream for your bed-sores, your fucking awful, tawdry, banal little lives are not worth sharing.

Your pain isn't special, your jokes are almost invariably borrowed from Eddie Izzard, and the sheer self-obsession you display every time you decide to write another entry in $t@rFairy'$ Diary! makes you an utterly unlovable human bring, and a waste of perfectly good pixels.

Now, fuck off.

Yes, I am well aware of the irony inherent in this rant. You're still not clever.