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a young girl's record of her thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication ...

I feel like Philip Marlowe -- old and tired and full of no coffee. Coming, Richard, coming. Several of you have let me know by email how much you enjoy the blog. Great. Thank you. I was getting concerned. I thought I was up here on stage, dancing my heart out, revealing everything about myself, down to the pasties of my soul (the author as stripper) and no one was in the audience clapping (or slipping a small bill into my garter). Now I see you're just shy. That's all right. Damn you, coffemaker, drip faster. Scary thought! The blogger is really something much more terrible than a striptease artist. This forum is an extremely public version of the much-maligned (by me, anyway) Journal. Why didn't I realize it before? Eek, and now I am blushing. I am a Journaler. This is me Journalling. See me Journal. Oh, dear. Word forms I hoped never to utter. How we have become the thing we hate. Of course it is not the Journal I hate, or even the Journaller. It is the concomitant aspects of Journalling: the bright eager eye, the healthy footwear, the dedication. I guess I'm not keen on keen. And yet here I am up at 5:30 -- what self-delusion. It's okay, the coffee is here at last. And now that I have stretched my writing muscle, I am ready from some serious exercise. Back to the zombies.


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