I am an anti-blogger. My husband is forever coming home from work with stories from this person's or that person's blog (which of course leads me to wonder what he actually does at work all day). I really have little interest in the random thoughts and complaints of other people. Published works don't always hold my attention -- gray literature seems even less likely to do so.
So imagine my surprise when I decided that blogging was a sensible thing for me to do. I have thoughts that I'd like to journal, although I doubt there will be anyone (besides my husband -- only on his lunch break, of course! -- and perhaps my mom) who will care to read them. It will also be a repository for annoyingly cute photos of my family; again, of little interest to anyone besides the people in the photos themselves, and their aunts and uncles. I might read a book and spout off about it. I will probably post recipes. I will doubtless complain about endless piles of laundry and cleaning up dog vomit and why, oh why, can we only ever find one shoe? It will be redundant and ridiculous and a little bit bombastic.
Thankfully there's nothing that entitles a person to blog, so it is with relief that I can begin this venture with no pressure. This will not be a "good" blog. It's not the kind that will make you question the deeper meaning of your existence. It will probably not get you riled about politics or religion. It may offend you, but that will be due simply to its pretentious awfulness.
It will, however, have lots of big words.