Y'know I have a fairly and quite grubby hobby. Given a day away from the factory floor, I sit at my bureau, pen five or seven hundred words of prose, whimsy possibly, then press 'publish' and this fresh, this prosary of mine appears on the WW-Web community hubble. I am not sure exactly how, but understand how honestly, I understand my efforts are inconsequential everywhere, simply dishwater in the tiniest petri dish ever imagined by anybody scientific, any chin spinner. Yet, in my defence I do do say, occasionally I say, I do develop my themes, post one away occasionally, the evolved story, to a bedroom-type publishing magnate, for him to consider this mighty talent, a photograph always attached, possibly gym-related. It is my thing, you see - how I become most famous overnight to three or four people because of them folk-publishers. It is a very nice feeling, my fame because people will love it when I am dead. I can't blame them, surely not. Generally, but not exclusively, I attract other, but quite strange folk to my hive, the writer blog where I live - almost referred to in previous monograph. Here hey, the chaps respond to me infrequently, but when they do do, they tend to express in ways I do not personally understand. Meaning that if I expressed initially along the tightrope of sense, then they respond by trump, almost defeating and deafening me in their senselessness - every time really, an ejaculation of excitement from them to find me man Friday, a soul sister of senselessness. It is great for five minutes, we make friends for a while, but then finally we both give up exhausted - for in we speak this language neither of us comprehends. I suppose that is the point really. What is wrong with me? Like today, I thought this new e-boy, a grandpa from Bermuda, actually, he might find me talented in my story...but then thinking about it, surely he must be some grand player on the grand stage, player, and me the worm....so did he like me at all, I mean my prose, or is he toying, eating me up for breakfast up, what a champion, eh? He said...[about my poem-story] "As brilliant as it is overtly scatological. Pure scatologic poetry." What exactly does this mean? Do you have a similar dimma, a dilemma, express, share your soul...sister.