Today is a day I always make a big fuss about. I don’t know why. I can’t decide if I don’t care if you’re reading this or if I merely shouldn’t; my relationship with writing itself is tumultuous enough without an audience. My ego is proud that I’ve been keeping up this weblog for six years to the day, which if you think about it is longer than I’ve kept up any single activity except for my relationship with Rob and taking care of Goblin Foo. I could go through a list of my life’s “inconstants,” but if you’ve been visiting me here for the past six years or any small fraction thereof, you probably know them by heart.

So, anyway, last year I wondered publicly if I should bother to go from five to six. My life had changed so much since I first put fingers to keyboard in 2002 and in my opinion had grown a great deal less interesting to read about. But six to seven doesn’t seem as momentous for some reason. I can keep doing this, sporadically and perhaps even mind-numbingly dully. If you want to keep reading, that would be nice, too.