Looking over what very little,
Looking over what very little, little I have here, I'm struck by how little I write now - it seems to go about 4 mos of slience followed by a small utterance or two. I sometimes have a hard time getting over the whole idea that the minutiae of my life is any more interesting than the minutiae of any one else's. In other words, this is the whole "Who the hell do you think you are?" brain nag niggling at me again. I sometimes wish I could have some of the naive, massive egotism, unencumbered by doubt that much of the stuff I read online seems to lack, which would explain why people feel free to post frippery concerning their cookie and soymilk tastes.