The sad tale of a normal blog page

The creator of a blog page enthusiastically decides to start the blogging process, sets up a page, writes a few inspired, rather random things. The blogger is complimented by two or three friends on his writing style.

Conceit is born.

The blog creator increases the amount of words and time being put into the blog. He expands to include the lyrics of songs by Jewell, arguments on why a MAC is better than a PC, and in certain circles, begins a one man tirade for or against Calvinism.

Someone agrees with him on something (God forbid) and mentions it to him.

The conceit grows.

The blogger begins to feel that the words coming on his blog page are inspired, that they can impact the world, that Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott and Mark Twain were bores in blogging land (they never could even get a blog in writing, for crying out loud), and that the readers of the world reading his blog page will spend all day spreading the word of such greatness to their family, their friends, their co-workers, and inevitably the head of a publishing house. His mother, noticing his dedication, brings him a cup of hot chocolate and tells him "James, you've a gift with words. When those mean bullies used to tease you because you were different. I knew that someday they would see that you may be different, but it's because you're special. And I'm glad you dropped out of 8th grade to pursue what you love."

The conceit knows no bounds.

James never leaves the computer anymore. He feels that every thought that passes through his mind (although few, they take awhile to make it through) should be put in the form of words and shared with the world as an online treasure that all may learn. If it rains outside, who better to explain the deep meaning of the gentle splish splashing of the drops as they cover the water soaked earth with nourishment for the flowers, the trees, the worms, and China (once it soaks all the way through)?

The blog continues to expound on every detail of life, on every breathe of air, on every star, on every ray of sunshine, until blah, blah, blah, blah, blog. The blog is bogged down, the readers long since gone, and it remains only as a tribute to the ability to stay in front of a computer and do nothing for almost every part of every day.

To the intelligent readers of my blog, you have my word that this will not be my blogs fate. The rest of you, believe what you want. You were only invited to my blog to keep readership up.

But the fact remains that I would never receive anything from my mother as unhealthy as hot chocolate.