It's crap and I hate it.

There are some things about womanhood that are better left unsaid. And manhood, too, for that matter. I mean, who wants to talk about smegma? Not me. But what I mean is, some of us hold onto misconceptions that paint us as the fairer sex, the less stinky sex. And that, to me, is just fine. Because I like that air of mystery. It covers up the smell.

But Fiona wants us to know that Girls Poop Too. Which, you know, obviously, but do we have to talk about it? I know, I've come over all delicate southern belle on y'all. Sometimes I can't help it. If she'd written a site called Girls Squirt Too, I'd have been all over it. But this is just... distasteful.

And so is the design. It's pink on brown. Those colors can work together, but not hot pink and doo-doo brown, like a cherry on a turd. I mean, I guess it illustrates her point, but aesthetically who would want to?

There are ads of the blinking variety, which just ratchets up the shit factor. Fiona, move your archives and categories to the top of the sidebar (nice work rolling them up, though), and get rid of the ads and the groups you've joined and the log in/register crap (or at least move that to the bottom). Good job on doing an About page, but you damn sure don't give us a lot to go on, do you? Hell, we don't even get your name there, or your age, or anything else of interest other than the story of how you came up with your blog title. I will say that the last paragraph of your About page was probably the most truthful and interesting of your blog.

I read through the entire blog, as I tend to do with all my reviews, and all I could glean is that Fiona is bitter and judgmental. Which I know is kind of pot-calling-kettle-blackish considering I'm judging her blog, but still. It's all just so angry. For 22 (which, by the way, I had to read for a thousand years before I discovered), she's got an awful lot of venom stored up and ready to spew. Dear heart, what happened? Has someone pissed in your Cheerios every day of your life?

Fiona writes about celebrities (yawn) and her political views (which I couldn't disagree with more, surprise surprise) and makeup and people who annoy her. Her coworkers are stupid and annoying, and Obama supporters are stupid and retarded and annoying, and her friends are stupid and boring and annoying, and everything is just crap and she hates it.

And she gets like one comment per post. Wonder why.

I liked this post; I cracked a smile. And I do agree with her on Nancy Grace. The woman is a menace. And the makeup suggestions were helpful because I am a girly girl. But otherwise? There just wasn't much here for me.

Girls Poop Too is exactly the kind of blog I can't get into: snarky without substance. We don't learn anything true or deep or appealing about Fiona. There's nothing here that makes me want to know her. It's all surface criticism and shit that bugs or amuses her. And for a journalism major, the writing is just not engrossing. Oh, she's got some zingers. And she mentions bukkake, which I kind of have to like. But the writing rambles and is inelegant and there's no attention paid to craft or execution or storytelling.

Fiona, I see where you want to go with this. I read a couple of the blogs you link to. But you're just not quite hitting it yet. There's too much trying to be funny and bitchy and not enough humanity or personality. I don't know you. And with what you're putting out there for us to read, why would I want to? If you're going to be a nasty piece of work, at least do it with style, put some effort into polishing up your writing. And if you're more than a bitchy little shit, then show us.

I could give you a flaming finger just because your attitude and your politics really chap my ass, but because I think I can see where this could go if you clean up your design, bring in some better colors, relieve the clutter, and polish up your writing, and because I'm feeling magnanimous and "hopeful" (sneer all you want, oh disaffected youth), you get:









Young Shirley: I hate the world. I hate everythin'. It's all garbage. It's last. It's crap and I hate it.
Old Shirley (V.O.): But I didn't really hate anything. The only thing I hated was me.
-- Shirley Valentine

Dear Diary, my teen-angst bullshit now has a body count*

Ah, I've missed it here. The holidays were grand, but, oh, to be back among you, you vile, loathsome, evil little cockroaches. You complete me.

I wish I could say the same for my reviewee today. My welcome back, in that sense, leaves much to be desired. Because instead of starting 2009 with a blog to praise, an author to drape with laurels, and a new hope for the merits of bloggers worldwide, I get... well... this.

Sigh.

Brace yourselves. There's bad poetry. And prose poetry. With no attempt at using an apostrophe. Or capital letters. Or a dictionary. Or any sense.

Ov. Ov? Seriously? Fucker. No wait, it gets worse: gud. And wud. And ud. I just... I can't even get mad. Because it just depresses me so much. I know this is English as a second language and I'm dealing with a generation who learned to communicate in text pidgin, but Christ on a crutch, is this is what the world is coming to? To paraphrase LB's daughter, I despair for her generation. And I despair for us if we're getting another round of emo Indian kids' blogs to review because, oh, the agony.

I suspect someone listens to a lot of Evanescence or maybe Lacuna Coil. And she calls herself a Nincompoop. And a loser. I mean, this is angst to the nth degree. It's dark (but kind of dark light, like gray, or maybe a middling purple, like it wants to be dark but doesn't know how), and silly, and juvenile, and pitiful, and woe is me, and melodrama, and OMG toadily (I'm fucking serious, y'all -- she wrote "toadily").

And what's worse is I can't understand a damn thing that's going on. There's no story. There's no revelatory information, no exposition, no nothing. I don't know who this girl is, aside from my assumption that she's young and depressed. I don't know what she likes, what she does, who her friends are, what she wants. It's just really bad poetry and really pathetic whining and really annoying mutilation of the English language. All on a black background with a huge ass header image that takes up too much space and meaningless doohickeys in the sidebar and it's just all a waste of time.

I hate to say that. I do. Because I suspect this girl just wants to let it all out, and I was an angsty teen, too, once, back when God was a boy and I had my own personal Jesus. But for shit's sake do it somewhere else, and don't subject the rest of the world to it. Password protect that drivel, put it in your bedside journal, or just write it on notebook paper and then wad it up and throw it away.

It's obvious she just posts when she's got some new angsty poetry to share, or when someone has broken her heart, or when the weight of it all (although what "all" is I haven't a clue because I can't understand every third word) gets to be too much, because there's just not a lot here. And that's probably a good thing.

This is not a blog. It's a regurgitation of emotion. And someone should clean that shit up before the rest of us get it on our shoes.







And here's a bandage for your boo-boos. Cheer the hell up.






*Heathers

Waitress, I need two more boat drinks

I'm a native Floridian and as such I love the beach. Not the ones you see on TV with condos and high rise hotels and flashing lights and fine dining. No. I like the ones that haven't been taken over by tourists, the ones tucked away and still obscure (though rarer and rarer), with weathered houses and sand on the floor and dive bars and sticker burrs and restaurants with plastic tablecloths and fried mullet.

I come from a long line of boat and beach people. We've had a place at one of those out-of-the-way redneck beaches since I was little, and my fondest memories of childhood are there, pulling the net and learning to waterski and building drip sand castles on the beach for hours and digging up sand dollars with my toes in the Gulf and paying toothless shrimpers to buy us beer when I was 13. My father and all my uncles spent summers as hands on boats, and one of them, the craziest of them, has spent most of his life on a boat, running from and just "running." He's down there now somewhere south, surfing and telling fish tales and going crazier every day.

So, inherently, I appreciate the inclination to go native, to go tropical. Which is why I was eager to review Lindi's Ideas, bland name and all. Because Lindi has done just that -- gone native -- and she's done it for a while now. And I admire that so very much. She's been all over, working on boats and scuba diving and teaching and, I imagine, having every kind of adventure. She's lost and found and has found herself in the Yucatan with a young Latin lover (I assume he's her lover; she doesn't quite say) and a house in Merida and a life of serenity and observation.

The template, like the name, leaves a lot to be desired. It's your standard blue blogger template. Blah. Flavorless. Soulless. Find something with flavor, something with a little kick. Linda, I know you don't know much about this whole blogging thing, but figure it out. Ask for help. Or go here.

There's no blogroll, or anything else for that matter, which does make it entirely uncluttered. But there's little in the design or in the "extras" to tell us who you are. And for some reason you contribute to your blog twice. How does that work?

The posts are loooong. Like this one, which I'm sure is interesting, but I can't be bothered because it goes on forever without paragraph breaks. Pick a topic and write about it. If the topic is expansive, narrow it down. Break it up. Especially if it's a "we went here and did this and here are the pictures" kind of post. Yawn. People won't care unless you make them care, and dragging on ad nauseum with no break isn't going to do it.

The writing is serene, almost formal. And it tends tends to plod. I wonder if it has to do with switching between English and Spanish (and Mayan!) in her day-to-day life. I have a friend who's lived in Korea for 10 years, and his English writing is now a bit... stilted. Without a voice.

The blog description uses the dreaded word "ramble," and it fits. There's no knowledge of where to end, of when enough is enough. I had a friend like this who couldn't for the life of her end a voicemail message. It's like she had no off switch. She didn't want to sit there rambling forever, awkwardly saying things like, "So, yeah, either call or whatever, you know? Um.... So. Did I say it's me? It is. And it's six o'clock. And we'll be here until whenever, so just, um... Yeah. Oh! Calamity says hi! And... um..." but she couldn't help herself. Hang up the phone already! Have a point! Even in your blog submission form, where you tell us about yourself, the form cut you off. I'm serious! You wrote so much the form said, nope, you're done, we're gonna stop you right there.

And when I say "have a point," I don't mean cat stuff. I like animals, too, mostly of the canine variety, but I don't know anyone who wants monthly updates on my furry friends. They wouldn't want updates if they were my actual children, either, so find something else. You're living in the dang-diddly Yucatan! There has got to be all sorts of junk to write about other than cats.

Linda, you are a fascinating, bold, and brave woman, who no doubt has reams of stories to tell... but you're not telling them. In your submission form you said, "I thought maybe I would sit my ass down to write every day instead of smokin too much dope and staring at teh computer..." Girl, do I ever know the feeling. Trust me, I'm all over that. You also say, "and although I know you will crucify me, fuck it, I am in the mood today. I must be a masochist because I have not shown my real self on that page, in fear of offending my family with my f..." (that's where the form said buh-bye). Awesome. You know there's a problem, you know you're muzzling yourself. And this is never a recipe for good blogging.

This is where it got interesting to me. The calm, peaceful, la-la-la of it all came crumbling down and we see some personality, some frustration, some life. Do more of this! Stop worrying if you offend people. This is the problem with non-anonymous blogs -- people get all wrapped up in what they're saying instead of just saying it. You have, I'm sure, lived one of the most interesting lives being blogged about, but we wouldn't know it because your posts are sanitized and travelogged and shuttered to hell and back. Take the ball gag out and give it back to Love Bites.

Also, in that bit up there from your submission form that I posted? There we get to see how you might talk, what you might sound like. It's more natural, less forced, less "I'm writing so I better write like I'm writing and take it seriously and inject it all with formality and all due decorum." Fuck that. Get real. Tell us the truth, tell us who you are, or don't bother.

Because I do absolutely find you fascinating, and because there's the potential for some great storytelling, I'm giving you





But if you don't step it up, if you don't start editing your writing so that it sounds like you and start telling us the good stuff and start revealing who you are and what you think and where you've been, well. You've been warned. Those flaming fingers singe something fierce.

Tears of a clown

This is going to sound hypocritical coming from a girl who calls herself Calamity and writes for a blog with vulgarity and threatened violence in the URL. But honestly? I don't like haters. Blogs that exist for the sole purpose of tearing others down and spewing bile and basically hating on everyone and everything turn me off.

I know. One could argue that we here at Ask spew our own particularly virulent brand of vitriol and gleefully take people down a notch or two. Or 47. And that's true. BUT! I truly believe we have altruistic intentions. We are merely here to serve, to entertain, and to clean up the blog world, one flaming finger at a time. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. And it's funnier.

So, yes, I'm a hypocrite. I can own that.

Which brings me to my review of Site Insights, which the owner claims is "A site with a few insights into life in the digital age, including pop culture humor, observations and thoughts from a new media douchebag.... As well as satirical and sarcastic commentary on being a middle aged geek in a twenty something world." And to that I say, well, at least he's honest. Except about the humor bit. Also, middle aged? Man. I thought he was 26, tops.

All we're told in his "about" spiel is that this person hates everything. Now, that's not boring in the least, is it? No interests, no personal history, no name, no gender, no background, no insight of any kind into who the author is. "Just Sayin'" is all we get, which, as a phrase, got old at least 3 years ago.

The design is website-y and a little befuddling. And unsettling. I'm not sure where to look. Call me simple-minded, but I need something more straightforward. And I hate this "click to read more" shit. Although, in Just Sayin's case, it does allow me to skip over those posts that don't interest me, which happens kind of a lot.

There's way too much stuff in the sidebar and footer. JS, you've got top posts, recent posts, recent comments, and another top posts. Why? Get rid of all of it and stick with an archive and category list and a blogroll. You're killing me with all that busy shit. This is a blog design for a magazine, or a team blog, not some guy venting about Paris Hilton and why rednecks are stupid.

And I can't deal with the little linky ad shit in the posts. I can't tell when you're sending me somewhere for emphasis to back up your writing, or if you're going to send me to a site about lower interest rates, which, if I wanted to find out about lower interest rates I'd goddamn go to Google, not a post on your blog that relates in no way whatsoever to the sites/ads that are linked. It's infuriating.

Moving on to the content: The "list of eleven" crap appended to every list is kind of pathetic. It doesn't take a real genius to recognize when the funny has left the building. There's some uneven posting, unless I'm missing some navigation option, which is entirely possible as this design overwhelms me. April 2008 has like four billion posts, while July has three. And they're all pop culture-related. And not even the good pop culture, like Buffy or James Bond or Dallas. Also, this guy is more into girly pop culture than any girl I've ever known.

The humor -- and I use that term loosely -- is tired, stereotypical (which he at least admits to), juvenile, and repetitive. And the writing is sophomoric. There aren't a lot of spelling snafus, but the ellipses have taken over the joint. It's a rambling, stream of consciousness mess of misogynism and ba-dum-bum-isms. I just picture this guy chortling to himself, cackling with glee over how funny he is. Thing is, he's just not. At least not to me. I didn't even crack a smile. Now, I remember what happened the last time I said someone with a humor blog was unfunny, don't y'all? Yeah, it wasn't pretty. But it was, ironically, funny.

You want to be a blogging god but aren't sure how? Well, me neither. But I know how you can stop being a blogging douche:

Your most interesting and revealing post didn't try to be funny. And that's what this blog has a lot of -- attempts at humor. Don't try so hard. Stop trying to convince everyone you're funny. The strain has to be killing you. It's a bit like Pollyanna writing a sex blog -- forced and uncomfortable and, ultimately, liable to break you out in hives.

So, ok, maybe some people think you're funny. I'm only one person, after all, and I'm not the arbiter of humor. (Although, dammit, why can't I be?) Anyway, what I'm trying to get at is, maybe you have some amusing insight into pop culture or "new media." But what you're publishing is just the same old crap someone else is publishing, only yours has less forethought, precision, and care. Seriously, the ellipses are your crutch and you've got to cast those things aside and say you're healed, because they aren't helping you at all. It's lazy, and it saves you from having to form complete thoughts, cohesive paragraphs, and polished posts.

I can't tell you how to be funny, but I can tell you how not to suck. Write what you know, take some time crafting your posts, be honest, let us in a little bit, tell us about yourself instead of whatever celebrity every other humor/pop culture/gossip blog in the world is covering, or if you insist on devoting time to celebrity news, try to bring something original, something fresh. And above all, tell us who you are, not who you want us to think you are -- the jaded, hateful cynic with talons to sharpen. Because it doesn't ring true. I sense (barely) a real person under all this contrived snark and false bravado. A person who, I suspect, would be more interesting than the guy you're playing at.

It's like your Aunt Edna's ass. It goes on forever and it's just as frightening.

I'm 33-years-old, and I don't have kids. I've never really wanted them, even when I was younger, when I just assumed I'd have them in the natural course of events, because it's what you do. Like buying a house and paying taxes and getting a Kitchen Aid and going to Home Depot on Saturday mornings. I don't think I have that baby craving gene. Puppy cravings, yes. I have four dogs. But kids? I don't know, man. They straight up terrify me. It's this whole other person, dependent entirely upon you, just waiting for you to fuck up their world and ruin everything and become the person they vilify in the analyst's chair every week for $500 a pop.

At my age, though, most of my friends have children. And if they don't, they're on their way, doing the charting and vitamins and temperature checks and cervix mucus and all that jazz. And I? Am flummoxed. I try. I listen and nod and ask questions and offer never to babysit. But I'm way, way, way out of my league with the whole kids thing.

But my dogs are freaking adorable.

Sarah, the Pessimistic Bitch, is among those trying to conceive and she uses her blog to chart her experiences with infertility. It is an interesting and frustrating set of circumstances, so the drama is there.

The design is clean, uncluttered, and white. Lots of ALL CAPS going on, which is slightly annoying. Otherwise, the writing area is appropriate, as is line spacing and font size. It's not too terribly cluttered, although the little traffic thing always freaks me out -- there I am! Ack! Why do we need this? Overall, it's blah but benign. She could stand to snazz it up some with a nifty banner or some color or some personality. And maybe use Pessimistic Bitch somewhere other than just the URL. I'm assuming that's the blog title, after all.

Sarah, good job rolling up the archives, but do it by months, not weeks. And add years to the dates. It's confusing as hell otherwise. And your about info should be up where we can find it, not hanging out down there at the bottom of the page. Better yet, put it on a separate page. Tabs are your friend.

There are acres of acronyms, the definitions of which I haven't a clue. Link this somewhere prominent or create a new post with definitions for those of us without baby making on the brain.

The writing comes in fits and starts in the beginning, jumping several months, which is natural. I did the same when I started. But there's no commentary about this lapse, and that's unsettling. She just jumps right back into her narrative. How about some transition? Some back story? The story so far in the sidebar is fine, but, Sarah, since your blog is, essentially, about your progress toward pregnancy, some more background is in order. Put it on its own page.

Sarah has some funny stuff (and heartbreaking stuff) to share that is absolutely ruined by rookie writing mistakes. She's got good material, a nice voice, and a fun personality, but the blog is haphazardly written and overlong. Some of it is a total mess. I am going to go on a one-woman crusade to teach the American people how to use apostrophes. Also, paragraphs really should not go on for yards. What we have here is an engaging person with an interesting story to tell who is a lazy writer, doesn't edit, and has a propensity for rambling.

She has really nice breasticles, though.

Look, Sarah. I like you. Even though I can't relate at all to the baby thing, your story and your struggle and your self pulled me in. Imagine how much more invested a reader would be if you paid attention to grammar and spelling and didn't just fling words up there on the page as they came to you. It's possible the grammar snafus got to me this time, because I'm feeling my inner (and outer) editor hardcore. I'm itching to take my red pen (razor fine point) to your blog and eviscerate it, the crimson ink mingling with your blog's pink, wriggly vitals (whoa -- I just went somewhere scary).

I want the best for you and your family. I want you to get pregnant. And I want to follow your journey. But I don't want to do it if you're not going to take the time to make your words count, to sharpen your sentences, and polish your paragraphs. I know you love him, we all do: take a page from Xbox. Look at his crisp, succinct, evocative, crafted words. The stream of consciousness writing, irregular capitalization, random spacing, lack of punctuation, and laissez-faire attitude in general toward English usage and conventions is a glaring and distracting counterpoint to your genuinely engaging voice.

So, you get this:








with a promise for stars if you add some interest to your design and start paying attention to your writing.

===

And speaking of bumping people's ratings up, Preston gets stars from me for writing a funny analysis of my review and blinging up his blog.

You people are BASTARD PEOPLE!

If Corky St. Clair had a blog, this would be it. Preston is involved in community theater, has some quirky collections, and loves Disney and his martinis. He has an ex with Cher tattoos, people. He has a crush on the Free Credit Report guy (Which, by the way, that damn song is now in my head for eternity. Blast you!). This is some hardcore Broadway gay. Which means I have to like him, if only a little. Even his name is gay! Preston. I ask you. It's fabulous. No. It's faaaahbulous.

But there are some issues. The template, for one. Bo-ring. Also, I don't think I get it. Blue Skies? I read your whole blog -- you really are that cheerful, aren't you? It is blue skies and sunny days and Barry Manilow up in this shit.

Anyway, the template. Switch your main body to a light background with dark text because what you've got now hurts the eyes. And bump up the font size. There's way, way too much clutter in the sidebar. Get rid of the blinking shit and badges. Find a template with tabs and put them on another page if you must retain them. Although I'll tell you now that those communities people join to try to boost readership and commenting are often more trouble than they're worth. And who wants to be a joiner, anyway?

Move your blogroll to a separate page because holy crap it's huge. Roll up your archives and move them up toward the top of your sidebar. And why would someone want to translate your page? Get rid of that. If people need a site translated, they know where to go. And shrink your search field and put it in the sidebar. It's taking up valuable writing property. Or better yet, just lose it. Blogger already has a search function right there at the top.

The content is innocuous. It's impersonal and surface. We don't get to know a lot about Preston's motivations or fears or hopes or demons. He's not a bad writer. The Ts are crossed and the commas are in the right places, and he's conversational if infomercially. There's poetry (yes, poetry), recipes, lots of article-ish posts, and some seriously yawn-worthy discussion on sunflowers. He does some very PG-rated humor and there's a moderately amusing story about hemorrhoids.

Preston's sweet like pie and a good person and I think he likely has an interesting story to tell, but it seems to me he's caught up in the whole everyone has a blog so I should, too, thing. To me his blog seems to be very much about us -- about the reader and what we might like to see or read or hear or know about -- and not very much about him. There's a balance to be found, between knowing what makes for interesting reading and using blogging as a means of expression. Right now it feels like Preston wants us all to like him, he wants to put on a good show, but by doing that he only lets us see the mask.

He hasn't been blogging long, and maybe he's still trying to figure out his motivation for blogging, his direction. And I suspect that he's allowed people in his personal and professional life to view his blog, so that could easily put a damper on genuine self-expression.

Ultimately, this is a puff piece. It's one guy's repository of benign observations and online community building. The writing is adequate if not particularly engrossing, but neither is it off-putting. It's... nice. And that, as I know all too well, is the kiss of death.

So, Preston, take off the mask. Give us more than one-dimension. I like you. I think you're unique and fun and probably a great friend to have around. But what you're giving now is the same as any number of blogs out there. Nice, fine, vanilla. Bland. I want bloody hot, like your martinis. When you figure out why you're blogging, when you drop the mask and let us see some method, resubmit. I'm sure then you'll get some stars.

Churchill's black dog meets Buddha

Depression with a capital D is a bitch. It's a bitch on wheels with a sidecar of black, dark, deep, abiding, ceaseless, grimy, angry fear when you're depressed, fat, seemingly friendless, gaining on middle age, unemployed with few prospects, single with few prospects, and without health insurance when your closest companion is four-legged and incapable of speech.

And Katherine at Beyond My Slab should know, because she's all of these.

You'd think her blog would be an unmitigated downer, an endless stream of woe is me. And it is. Sort of. But by dint of Katherine's voice, this slow crawl toward despair is -- or at least it was for me -- impossible to stop reading.

The bright design is nice, and it flies in the face of the palpable doldrums rolling of the site (an effort, perhaps, to put on a brave face), but I could do without the highlighter yellow. Katherine, consider tabs for an About page, and move the favorite books, movies, etc., there. Think about limiting the number of posts per page, too, to cut down on scrolling. Figure out how to make your archives into a drop-down list. And I suggest a larger font size -- the one you've got makes my head hurt.

She's prolific, having blogged for two years and participated in Blog365 at some point, and I read the entire thing. This says something. It could be the dogs. I'm not going to lie, this blog is chock full of them. Dogs, dogs, dogs, and more dogs. Which is fine by me 'cause I have four of them, but cat lovers may despair.

But it's not just her fuzzy, noble companion, Buddha. She's got this quiet sense of humor. And she's kind of zen when she's not letting misery pull her down. And she's interesting. Quirky in the best ways. She likes old movies and Pratchett. She's a little pickled, and I like her version of denial. And she has these really weird dreams that I'm so glad she documents. I mean, who has sex dreams about Jacques Cousteau? I ask you. It reminds me of my sex dreams about Father Mulcahy.

The blog is really well-written, but it wasn't until this post that I figured out how old Katharine is. There's a really slow reveal going on here, with bits and pieces taunting me. But there's also a willingness to let it all out there, to show her warts, that I can't help but like.

Sure, there's some boring stuff and memes, but there's a nice mix of short and long, meaningful and fluffy posts. And with this litany of daily accomplishments, one gets the feeling that it's holding her together, keeping her focused, and so it's kind of fascinating. It gets a little Eeyore-ish, sure, but she writes it so well I don't much mind. There's a whole lot of sadness going on, but it's nicely written, so cleanly expressed. There ends up being a really scary time around the fall/winter of 2007, and it's continued recently. Honestly, it worries me. I want to hug her.

Katherine. You wrote recently of wanting to chuck it all in and delete your blog Don't. Please. Ok, so maybe you're not popular and swimming in comments. Neither am I, frankly, on my personal blog. But keep at it. What you're doing here is valuable, to yourself and to your readers. And I think you should have more. I don't know why you don't, except maybe people turn away from the drag, don't know how to respond to what's going on in your life. All I'm saying is I like you. I like your blog. I wish things were going better for you right now. I wish you'd get a great job, find a big burly man to love, nurture some rewarding friendships, and start writing the kind of stuff that isn't such a downer. Because I know you've got it in you, and I want to hear all about it.

If you weren't doing all the things you're supposed to do when you're depressed and jobless -- getting out of the house, getting exercise, volunteering, going on interviews, joining book clubs, putting on a brave face -- I'd want to hit you upside your head for being so blue. But you are doing those things, and so I want to support you in your efforts to make a better life.

So here. Three stars eagerly, unreservedly given, and not because I hurt for you, because I want to hope for you. It's because I like what you have to say and the way you say it.