The Depths

I don't know what's scarier, the fact that I have so much free time at work that I create these retarded rants against various aspects of mankind, or that people actually come here and read these aforementioned rants.

I mean, my website isn't exactly a wealth of information. The main page is nothing but links. Think about that for a second. Links. Nobody wastes their time with link sites. They're completely useless to everyone except the person who put it up in the first place. I use it merely to provide a quick place to spring from whenever I feel a pang of work-induced boredom coming on.

And then there's this ever-growing branch. It's a hideous, out-of-control monster with eleven eyes, six stomachs, and innumerable tentacles that are all hell-bent on choking you to death. The navigation couldn't be uglier if I soaked the markup in excrement pureé. A glorified directory listing whose original design can probably be dated back to 1983.

I don't update near enough to keep the average internet junkie satisfied, yet somehow, I get the feeling that whenever I put up a new page, somebody somewhere is giggling in delight. That tends to happen when you promise fortnightly updates and you are hit with inspiration on a slightly more frequent basis. Set the bar low and you'll never be disappointed.

Then there's the content. C'mon. If I had a nickel for every website out there whose soul existence was to rant about useless crap as a steamvent, I'd be a very wealthy man. Also, I'd like to know what organization is spearheading the “Nickel-per-common event” donation campaign and how I can add my account number to their clientèle.

I've made no effort to track the relative success or failure of this site. I have no idea what kind of weirdos have found these pages with a little help from the almighty Google. For example, entering the Googlewhacklegions+supernerds” renders a lone hit. These lowly ultra-bored netslugs who dwell among us spend hours just typing random words into search engines longing for fresh entertainment.

And I use the word entertainment in the loosest sense allowable by Dr. Merriam Webster.

I wouldn't have any way of knowing. I haven't received a single email regarding the “work” I do on these pages. People just randomly drop in and disappear as quietly as they arrived, secretly expecting twelve new pages upon their next visit.

So, let's recap. There's no name, there's no design, there's a lack of substantial content, there's no advertisement, there's no proof of viewership, there's no money being exchanged for hosting space, and there's no commitment one way or the other regarding the existence of the words you're reading right now. Why am I typing anything? I could be... well, that's why. I could be doing nothing. And getting paid for doing nothing would make me feel a twang of guilt.

Don't get me wrong. The guilt would go away almost instantaneously and would not be of any degree as to make me aware that I was indeed feeling guilt for a split second, but it would be there, far beneath the surface. And I'd be staring at the woodgrain pattern of the desk in front of me.

“Amazing what they can do with particleboard these days, isn't it?”

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