If I blog in the forest and nobody reads, will anyone hear me scream?

Why on earth don't I write on this blog anymore. Twitter. Seriously? 140 characters? Do fuck off.

As for Facebook, christ. The stress! Is my status update funny? Am I updating too much? The mortifying bingo wing pictures, the awkward status comment chats between my dad and that guy I know who went to prison for dealing cocaine. The endless fucking spastic fucking farm games. The rocketing number of ex-boyfriends in my friends list. 'You might know This Arsehole' - why yes, I do know That Arsehole! So, you're not dead yet then. Never mind! I NEED to know about all the lame club nights you're making flyers for, I NEED to. Let's. Be. Friends. SHOW ME YOUR FLYERS.

Really, once I'd accepted my entire family, my work colleagues, the dealer from university, a couple of under 16s I used to babysit, everyone I've ever had sex with, a pervy freelancer, a handful of Tory voters, some people I despise and an illiterate death-dog breeding chav who I apparently went to a school with, I found I was a a bit limited with the thoughts and feelings I could express.

So I think I'll just come back over here for a bit and talk to myself. And possibly Ingrid, if I'm still in her RSS feed thingumy. I'm 33, I've just been dumped for the umpteenth time and I don't really have anything else to do. Besides, I want to cut my hair off, dye it blonde and write an utterly outrageous and deliberately provocative chick-lit 'novel'. And I can't get my brain WD40'd up writing about Gwyneth Paltrow's bony bloody legs or Madonna's fucking hat. The best thing about having a very public blog out there in cyberspace full of ooh, slightly controversial swearing, is that no fucker will read it. Amen to that.