I must confess. I must bare my soul and admit my far too human shortcomings.

There are weblogs I read solely because I think the writer is a big old loser. I don’t entirely know why I do it, but I suspect its too feel better about myself.

Somewhere the sad calculus computes something like this — Wow, I can’t believe she (invariably a woman) wrote about her boring day that ended in catching up on television re-runs while eating a Lean Cuisine dinner, because she’s concerned about her backfat. Oh, and she’s wondering why she has no boyfriend, but just wrote eight paragraphs on the cuteness of her kitten and how great it is to have something warm and breathing nearby that will listen. It’s a cat.

Or it’s the twenty paragraphs parsing the meaning of “his” email and whether it meant what she thought it did or was he being passive aggressive and how many of her friends could she call to see what they said it meant, if only she wasn’t nervous about showing them, because it could get back to “him.” Um, yeah, good neuroses to slap up in a public place.

Anyway, I’m not like her. Ergo, I am not a loser.

Judge for yourself, but yes, yes I am.