DOES THE END EVER END?

Some sort of assessment is in order. Blogg started out (a few names ago) as an experient of the author's to discover what "blogginess" felt like. Felt like to write and offered it as a potential reading experience to whoever might stumble upon it. The standard used was that as long as the author felt interested enough to keep writing it, there must be something in it worth reading,if only by the author, to praise his own writing ability. The rule about not having the author's personal life intrude seemed essential at the beginning in order to distill the essence of pure blog and not degenerate into autobiography, memoir or limerick. What is becoming apparent is that if you remove biographical incident from the author's life, fiction and what have you, what you are left with is post after post about how the posts are meaningless but the author intends to keep posting them because the meaningless is the meaning. It's German philosophy lite. The author's barometer has always been his low threshold for boredom. The moment he gets bored, there is something radically wrong with the narrative that must be righted or he will stop the narrative. The author finds boring writing a great personal embarrassment, whereas stupid, meaningless writing can have their place, can be amusing and, taking a step back, even serfious in a manner of speaking. The author wanted to experience the writing of a blog and share it. He did not want to share the content. He just wanted to share the experience. Somewhere in his mottled brain he assumed it would go somewhere interesting for him and for the reader. But this does not seem to have been the case. It's endless repetetion in sightly different forms of the initial idea. The point, if there was one to prove, has been proven. This sucks. If the author wasnts to write, limericks about vegetables, which he actually wrote (oops, broke the fucking meaningless rule) a few decades ago would be preferable to this.
I could end the agony now and just say, "this is it." End of blogg. We are fast approaching that moment. But while the author has been disappointed in the result of his experience, he has enjoyed the experience itself of clickety clacking about anything for fifteen minutes after his coffee and morning meditation. He hates the thought of giving this up and wonders if there is a variation in the blog format that he could find which would keep him clacking and smiling but would not be so offensively stupid that it would be embarrassing. We are out on a thin limb that overlooks a deep cliff, so we shouldn't expect too much. But sometimes desperation is a good instructor. One of the author's meditation books said that every time the meditator came off his breath and back to the mind, it should not be looked on as a failure but an opportunity to improve one's meditation. So blogg again asks to be cut some slack even if it is terminal. I clack therefore I am.