Now. Most of you little people will assume that us blog writers are, fundamentally, a lazy bunch of wankers. The type of people who want to be writers but who lack the conviction/talent/sobriety to actually finish that 2nd draft of "the novel", and who, instead spend their time codding themselves that a blog which requires 5 minutes of your day and which gets read by 37 people and a cat, constitutes 'being a writer'.
No!
No I say!
No and NOOO again. A big dirty Ian Paisley NO.
In fact, dear readers, we bloggie types suffer for our art. Allow me to explain:
On Saturday, after 7 hours on the lash, I decided that cutting myself some Ham off the bone was a good idea. 2 minutes later and I am hopping around the kitchen, clenching my left index finger and trying to stop the flow of blood. It's true what they say about cutting away from yourself...
Today I cleaned the sink. And duly lascerated the index finger on my right hand. So, here I sit, writing with the bloodied stumps of what used to be my fingers. Don't you ever fuckin slag a fucking blog person again.
