I used to open this page and write whatever came out unbid, then wonder how people could respond with positivity, glibness or even a lovely invitation for me to cop the fuck on and realise that love wasn't just something that happened to other people.
I seldom knew what I'd write about before opening the browser and that's why I've never taken to being offered a subject on which to blather, topics proffered by other voices.
Funny things, blogs, for their breadth and their untidy ramblings, for the links that have migrated to Twitter and for the occasional gold that remains.
A funny thing to a comment whore like myself, vomiting words for words to wake up to, but it's all got a little bit lost since I've realised that one set of eyes seeking me out in a room is enough, for any man, and the once cherished (3) of a Gmail account is the most anti-climactic thing in the world.
I remain, though, I persist. This is not a giving up. I still get mornings like the one that happened today, sitting on a bus for an hour and a half in the rain while Dublin shuts itself down so a man can drink a pint.
Mornings like this one on Clanbrassil Street where I look out from the 19A and a phrase hits me that I'll probably never use, but I like the thought that I can, and the comment whore inside me will get his end away. I may have lost some structure but I'm trying to get it back.