Random Paranoia

The huge leap in traffic over the past couple of days has filled me with mixed emotions. There's a tiny little part of me that is whispering: "Look at all those hits! The editor of Neurotic Gen-Xer Weekly must be in there somewhere. I bet he's reading your weblog right now, yelling to his PA: "We've found our new star columnist! Send round the limo with some posh booze and a big pizza and some Hello Kitty stationary-- whatever it takes! We've got to get her on board!"

The rest of me (which is marginally closer to reality) is picturing spam, death threats, spam, hatemail, more spam than you can shake a stick at, mailbombs, viruses, spam spam spam and spam... and of course dozens-- nay, hundreds!-- of potential employers shaking their heads in sorrow and mumuring: "Do you think this clown's got any idea how big a ninny she looks? Find out the real name of the person behind this freakshow, would you-- we wouldn't want to hire her by mistake. Actually, just have one of our Human Resources people pop round with a gun. It's the kindest thing to do."

Y'see, I'm suddenly and acutely aware that I haven't really aimed for a sense of top-class journalism here, going instead for flash animations and stuff about platypuses, interspersed with moaning about my job. I realize now that, just possibly, trying to get my readers involved in a sordid magickal ritual might not put me in the best light.

So, if the editor of Snide&Resentful Review (incorporating Let's Blame Everyone But Ourselves For Our Problems Digest) happens to be reading this: I can actually do proper writing, you know. Honest.

Gizza job.