Only the dark obligation to write and post every single day it is feasible here or from work or from wherever I am is making me type here. That and the desire to type here. To type. To feel a keyboard under my fingers. This post will bore you appall you leave you empty and full of nothing. Perhaps regret that you didn't find a different site instead of this site. Despair mortals, you have come to the end of the line. the inevitable result of blogging's success, the utterly contentless paragraph. The post for posting's sake. Utter complete and inescapable self-referentiality. Quiver in your cubicles, oh my readers! Readers? what are the odds of that? That's what I thought.

On second thought: courtesy of Long Story, Short Pier, here's something - the Gender Genie - which purports to guess the gender of the writer of any text by calculating things like the number of "the's" and possessives. (Detailed here. More info at Nature News Service.) That stupid first paragraph proves that I am male! (120 words, 127 score.)

This is thoroughly delightful, though possibly useless. I have fed various texts through and come out as a male writer of non-fiction and a female ficteur. Is that a word? Ficteur? Should it be? Would a man or woman write a thing like that? It's not a word. It's a diversion. It's dragged me off the path of this, um, metaphor, plunging like a derailed train into an abyss.

Thank god no one is reading this.