Resume transmission

As if to acknowledge its status as the social media of yesteryear, Blogger barely seems to be working as I dip into it this evening; the duration of its load times is in obdurate opposition to our nice new shiny internet connection, which other parts of the internet tell me is currently humming away at 46.56 Mbps. Perhaps it's simply trying to dissuade me from another ill-fated attempt to string out the pained recent existence of this particular blog even further, like it's the ailing elderly relation I compared it to last time I was here.

Well too bad, blog. Suck it. Just your bad luck I guess, but I've got some kind of weird sunken cost fallacy going on in regards to you, and I refuse to switch off the life support. If Google had decided to detonate idle blogs at some point like Microsoft did with Hotmail accounts, another great store of Ben's brain murmurings and personal history might well have vanished into the aether like all those emails did (up yours Microsoft). But Google have all the storage space in the known universe. (I believe it's on some kind of floating dreadnaught? Or possibly a space station at this point. I think the space station also has the Justice League on it. Yeah, that sounds right.) And alongside all the storage, they also seemingly have a patient attitude towards generally aimless arts graduates with nothing more than a vague feeling that they should be writing – er, something – so while they do, you'll continue to exist and you'll damn well like it.

Exactly how you'll continue to exist I'm not too sure, but by Jove you will. By Jove.

In what now seems like a strangely remote part of my past where I wrote actual letters to someone on a regular basis – no, seriously they were actual letters – there was a conversation (through the letters. I used a pen.) in which a piece of wisdom was passed on to me from the implied high of what I'm pretty sure was the Ancient Order of Letter Writers, which went along the lines of: never begin a letter by apologising for the length of time since the last letter. It's an old tradition, or an ancient charter, or something. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned it in passing previously on this blog before, but I used it more as a segue into some kind of other topic.

Now though, I'm just using it as a preamble to say that you can suck it too, readers. No, I mean I like you and all, but no apologies. Worrying too much about entertaining you is very definitely one thing that has stopped me writing more often over the years, and the manner in which writing this post and at least intending to write more of them is some kind of expression/outlet/intention to do something about what feels at this point like my mid-life-crisis-that-probably-isn't-really-much-of-one-really feels like it doesn't really need you here to get its job done. So for now anyway, I guess this is my stream-of-consciousness bucket, and people can choose to dip their mind-ladles into it if they want, but although they might bring up a tasty tidbit, it might equally well be some kind of random hairy-looking thing. (See, I mean mind-ladle, what the hell? That's probably about the outstanding level of metaphor you can expect.)

Or maybe I won't write anything after this again for ages and this blog will just sit here like the tiny, dim-red LED of an appliance on stand-by, utterly unnoticed somewhere in a city amidst the glare of a million bigger, brightly burning lights.

Gonna see if I can't get the LED to start blinking again, though.