Supposing I were to tell you that I am a real writer? Would you believe me? I would bet that 99 out of 100 people would say (emphatically and with strong emphasis)
"Hay-ell no. That gal ain't no more a writer than I am a rockette scientist!"
And, you ask, just what the heck is a rockette scientist? That is a dude that hangs around radio city music hall a lot. Kind of like a groupie for girls with great fan kicks. . .
Anyway, there you have it. I am no more a writer than there is an official department of labor code for rockette scientists. But life has a way of chasing me one way or the other and I find that I often feel as if I am going all around the mulberry bush - running as fast as I can, in a very worn circle.
"Damn, you feel like that, too?" asks the hamster in the wheel. He actually powers most of my brain cells. His name is Hairy. Hairy the Hampster.
Hairy says hi, by the way. If you are reading this, you are reading the Hairy's work. Indirectly. Channeled through me.
And to think, you could have tapped a few keys and found Wil Wheaton's blog. . . .
Choices and consequences. Choices and consequences.
Hairy is tired now. He says goodnight.
