Geez, I’ve been rambling and raving like a nutter on this blog. I’m surprised anyone is still reading. You’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you, what with all the blogs I used to write. Popular blogs. But it seems harder to write as me than it ever did to write as someone I’d made up.

So let me try to get some more explanation happening. Naomi’s stories – they’re not 100% fiction, of course. Yes, I was a fiction blogger and Lana outed me. Yes, it utterly crushed me. See, I used to work in your classic crappy 9-to-5 – the sort that’s more like 8-to-7 – and I hated it. Passionately. Fiction blogging was originally my escape. Most people use books or computer games to escape the dull realities, but I used my blogs. Some reminded me of how much worse things might be. Others helped me feel alive and interesting again. Yeah yeah, I made money from it too. But I loved being those people, having all of those different lives. I felt as though I wasn’t constricted to just being boring old me. So Lana coming along and happily sweeping all that away so that she could have her bloody half-alien baby kinda pissed me off a little.