Here’s how I know I’m not the Unibomber, just a misunderstood artiste —

I know intellectually that the flood of work computer traffics is probably due to a slew of people parsing my every word for a clue to my mental health. Striving to decode what isn’t there, namely the actual, serious intent behind the words. Bwahahaha, jokes on them, I know more than anyone that these are idiotic ramblings without weight, gravity or substance. Horsefeathers, I think that’s what we have here.

But, the part of me that is all writer, all ego ridden, communicating fury, stand-up comic, Barnum and Bailey spectacle, what is that person thinking about the increased traffic? That wingnut “artist” is thinking, “Huh, they keep coming back every day. Maybe they are enjoying the read.” Always look for the fan base no matter how ridiculous, right?

And that’s how I know that (a) I’m OK and (b) I possess just that overactive imagination that a friend does a comedy bit about, namely how he always gets in trouble for it.