Reality? Is that you?

So of course, like most typically self-absorbed yet pathologically approval-seeking wannabe-intellectuals, I had my worries about this blogging lark.

On the one hand, no-one reads the damn things. How spectacularly onanistic must it be to know this, and yet post one's random musings on all and sundry anyway? Why not lie awake at 4AM and think one's thoughts at the ceiling, like a normal neurotic?

Even worse, on the other hand, everyone reads them. You might garner an enormous audience of fans and trolls. How spectacularly narcissistic must it be to think that your thoughts (or, for that matter, your covetous pictures of the latest iPod or your motherloving amazon wishlist) should occupy the representational space of anything other than a ceiling, much less a human mind? I mean, god, these people might be doctors or something. Or running the free world.

But then it hit me that I don't know which of these things might happen. So I hereby stick my foot right between Onan and Narcissus and welcome you to my ceiling.

Every audience and none. Bloody brilliant.