It started out innocently enough. “I’m bored,” you thought to yourself, “maybe a blog would give me something to do, and give me a creative outlet, one of those things my therapist is always pestering me to find.” So you found a blog somewhere. Whether you started a free one on some shitty blog hosting site like blogspot or livejournal or installed some blogging software at your own domain is really unimportant. What is important is that it changed your life forever.

You were okay at first. You’d come home in the evenings and write about something you found entertaining within the past few weeks. You’d be happy with what you ended up writing, and publish it out there for the world to see.

Soon, you could feel things begin to change. The blog that once served as a distraction from the toils of everyday life began to feel like more and more of a burden. You could feel it invading your creative process; you would actively try to think of things to write in your daily blog post during your morning commute, and your commute back home in the evenings would be underscored with a sense of lingering frustration that nothing seemed interesting enough. You would write a post anyhow, some dinky little limerick about badgers or soup, and you’d go to sleep, slightly less of a person.

This trend continued on through the weeks, the blog slowly sapping away at your will to write, claiming bits and pieces of your soul. Every day brought with it new insecurities, new feelings of remorse for the talent that was slowly being quashed and squandered. That is, until the one day when it all ended, and your mother opened your closet to find you strangled, dangling from a rope with your pants down around your ankles, asphyxiated in the process of masturbating out of chronic depression. You scarred her for life, you know.