To blog, or not to blog: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outraged leftys,
Or to take arms against a sea of insanities,
And by opposing cure them? To diagnose;
No more; but by our therapy to end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
The mind is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To diagnose;
To heal: perchance to cure: ay, there's the rub;
For in that healing of mind, what thoughts may come
When one has shunned reality,
It must give pause: there's the psychosis
That makes virtue of victimhood;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
And be oppressed ad infinitum?
The pangs of despised powerlessness,
The insolence of office and the flipflops
That narcissistic politics engenders?
Only those whose grandiosity
Is matched with unbounded self righteousness,
Who grunt and sweat for power o'er others.
But then the dread of life after the Internet,
The undiscover'd country from whose seduction
No blogger really returns, it puzzles the will
And makes us willing to bear all ill will
Of trolls and sock puppets of whom we know not of....
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the pajama revolution
Is mere addiction disguised by intellect.
The enterprise of blogging pithy connundrums
And exposing naked narcissism on the left,
Hath its merits and its pain. - Soft you now!
The fair Freud and Jung and Adler! Wizards!
Let unconscious memories be remember'd....
(with apologies to The Bard)