Even I am weary of all ths solipsistic wailing: the sound of my own voice comes back to me like a fractious, over-indulged child. I definitely wouldn't invite myself round for a play-date.
So I'm going to attempt to stem the tide of egoistic self-absorbtion. Though I suspect that the very act of blogging is firmly predicated on the self-conscious and self-regarding, like a diary one deliberately leaves in a taxi in the hope that someone might read it and secretly find one fascinating.
And I'm quite sure there's something deeply suspect about my colluding with the whole conceit, but since I've started, I shall make a heroic effort to do away with the weltschmertz and angst. I shall cast off Werther's yellow waistcoat, whilst keeping my vest pulled firmly down over my navel, to discourage gazing at it.
If this is an online diary, let it at least be something sensational to read on the train.