Opening Precautionary Instructions

Look at you. Just look. 35. If you can get your weight under control (you can see your dick, yeah, but don't kid yourself - you're fat) you can reasonably expect to live another 35 years, tops. That means your life is half over.

And what have you done? Nothing. Where are all the books you were going to write? You never wrote them. Weren't you supposed to be the playwright who was going to get arses back on seats with his revolutionary new style of theatre? I don't see that happening. Oh, so you still fantasise about being a film director one day, eh? Keep dreaming.

You travelled a bit, you even left the country. Once. You got in trouble with the police as a teenager. Once. You experimented with drugs if, by 'experimented', you mean that you smoked bongs and giggled in front of the TV with your mates while you ate slices of pizza from Dominoes. Lots.

You never finished high school. You ditched your apprenticeship halfway through. You got into university by a miracle and dropped out after two years of part time - part time - study. You held a job for a whopping five years before you got fired.

In short, not very good. A very below-average 35 years. Sure, people you grew up with have done worse than you, but they accomplished that by dying. So why the blog? Who gives a fuck what you think?

I suppose you still want to be a writer. Can't kill that impulse no matter how much a part of you knows for sure that you can't write for toffee. And one thing writers do is write. You spend enough time writing on bulletin boards - imagine if that counted for something! You'd be the Hunter S Thompson of the internet! Still, one thing you can say about blogs, they may be pointless, but they're utterly harmless.

So go on. Write your pissant little blog. And have fun.