A Quick Squish

I don’t like the word “blog.” It’s an ugly word—uglier than “moist” or “flesh.” I don’t like the thought of writing short nonfiction pieces, pushing enter, and watching as they hurtle out into the universe. You may as well fill up a journal with supposedly profound thoughts and chuck it into the Grand Canyon. If you’re lucky it’ll knock some lone hiker on the head. Then maybe he or she will pick it up and show some interest. If not, well, it’ll float down the river, and, honestly, no one will really care. And you know what, we shouldn’t expect them to…care, that is.  Who do we think we are— we egotistic bloggers-- to think that anyone would want to, let alone enjoy, reading about how, while biking home from work today we hit a squirrel, and luckily we didn’t squish it flat but the blow may have caused internal bleeding, which may, perhaps, be much, much worse than a quick squish?  Then again, maybe it’s more egotistical to refrain from joining the masses simply out of self-righteous priggery. So, here it is-- the beginning of my blaaaaugh.