Oh, Diaryland, I'm so sorry. I've written on Facebook; I've written on MySpace. I've skipped over you, many times, over long periods. The truth is, you're a strange holdover from a bygone era, like 15rpm transcription discs, or the expression "toy balloons." People may find you still, but will not be able to make sense of you. You're unsyndicated, plain-text, have minimal social networking capabilities. You're not a blog, you're a "web diary." To most, you're basically unattractive. But I still like you. You remind me of the days where writing for the Internet was esoteric and nerdy, and had no catchy name. Nobody I knew read my entries, or even knew I wrote online, and I liked it that way. I felt like I was able to exert special control over my life, and all who was in it, because I got to write the definitive narrative: a public secret, like scribbles on an obscure wall. Your place in my life is much the same now as it was. What has changed is my need to lay claim on that kind of narrative. I was much more insecure then, and writing was the surest thing I could do. Now, there is less to tell, because I'm trying to do what I think, and describing what you've done purposefully is pointless. So until next time, when the need arises.