No, it wasn't a savvy marketing ploy. I wasn't attempting to create a buzz with the kids. I wasn't even trying to find out who my real friends are (thanks, Charlie). The truth is much more boring than fiction. Stop here. Save yourself.

The idea of writing a journal has always been attractive to me (cue the oohs and aahs). Especially, if we're talking about one of those classy bound jobbers you can pick up at Barnes and Noble with the acid-free paper and the famous surrealist painting on the cover. I could wear a fucking black beret and drink black coffee in a cafe and write in one of those jobbers and chicks would say, "Hey." You know what I'm sayin that shit is tight.

Alas, eventually I attempted a slightly more modest, more mundane, conventional journal - a plain vanilla spiral bound notebook - and managed to complete but one entry before I invented a distraction and never looked back.

I started this site for an audience of one. Me. Oddly, I swiftly discovered that posting drivel online somehow felt more organic, more natural and much more comfortable than putting plume to papyrus. Dear friends, it's mortifying to admit it, but I read what I write. Often, more than once. And I don't mean just to proof - make no mistake, this crap makes me laugh. What can I say? I've always been my biggest fan.

Over time, a few coworkers, friends, clergy would discover my little virtual sock drawer here, read a choice selection, vomit and generally, never come back. Some stayed for more punishment. The little dearhearts.

I'm still pretty bewildered that anyone I don't know personally (or, simply, anyone) would want to read what I write. After all, this blog is not Scottish, you dig? I figured if you're gonna trudge through this swill, you'd at least want the hip waders of knowing the author. (Pain killers and Merlot, baby. Pain killers and Merlot.) Another blogger-type person made mention of the fact that I don't have an "About Me" page. Creating one never occurred to me. I always figured the handful of peeps that stopped in here from time to time already knew that I was a small 43 year old Swedish man named Sven Svorensen with big meatpaws, longish, feathered, sandy blond hair, penetrating hazel/red eyes, and a taste for goatmeat. I mean, why state the obvious?

Christ, the rambling. Save us.

Ok, so here it is:

Something happened. I took some time off. I was thinking (an extremely slow and uncomfortable process for me) - the effort of which produced two offspring:

1. No more thinking. Ever. Hurts.
2. I want to continue.

Thank you to the fine and lovely folks who took the time to encourage me to return. Sincerely. Thanks. You startled me.