Our blogging cortege

Goddess Serendipity

Yes nice lady, twas me. You found the culprit who spied your little card in their mailbox. Canada Post had a mishmash of sticky addresses from a handful of your long lost relatives from all over our fine city stuck on your snail mail, and it finally ended up here at Deathrock Apartments. Canada Post employees are very hard workers who do not have time for the fringes of our society, it would seem.

Who do we write to when we blog?

In our mind's eye we envision an audience, vast in scope, of all the people we know and have had dealings with whom we address in our egomaniacal philanthropies. Ex's and old flings, like the little red haired girl we had a crush on in high school and took out to a hockey game never to be acknowledged by again, make excellent specimens. Like they really care, we can contemplate the agony they must endure when they fathom the grace and depths of our psych which they so melodramatically ditched for a more hip dude. We can fancy them sobbing with visions of the gratification they could have achieved in wanderings with us o’er our great earth and through the bizarre encounters with the musings of a great mind.

Or the politicians who have all the time in the world to read our perspectives on the secretive intrigues which keep our fine country churning along. Not that we have any idea how ill informed and misinterpreted our views on their views may be, we privilege them with anarchistic bents which would utterly destroy our cherished complacency about poor and ignorant and war trodden hordes who also tread this earth. But we blog on.

Our self esteem soars as we see hits from far away countries in the vain hope that they really have an interest in the leanings of wild Western North American swashbucklers, and that they're not just phishing for hints at passwords to charm the riches away from us stinking rich chumps. Never mind, we just egg them on with our tales of endless open prairie and pristine forests stretching mile after mile into the great white north where the skies are not cloudy all day.

Or we can simply write for that handful of nice people who have actually responded to or +1'd our frivolous posts, kidding ourselves worse than the Twins of Vanity that they will ever stumble upon us again in the vast realms of the ethernet of modern Gormenghast.

But today I wrote to that nice lady. Even used my never before utilized statistics course from 45 years ago to calculate that she had a 1 in 5,837,396,214 chance of ever glimpsing let alone comprehending this little message. But then given the odds of our universe's existence and the even less odds of my own existence and awareness, that's an almost dead certainty. My optimism suffers no delusion.

Serendipity, the goddess of the ethernet.