blogging it real

I don't get it.

At bloggingitreal we provide indepth coverage of domestic and international politics, sport, media, law and order, climate change and more - sharing our unique perspectives on the issues of the day.

Yet unless Bobert pisses off anonymous Cubans down Miami-ways with his hard-hittin' truths on the revolution, there's usually sweet fuck all in terms of a public response via our comments thread.

And that's fine, we're not in it for the fame, we prefer to roll underground, for as long as our posts of the day are on the lips of the learned man and woman in New Zealand, on the forefront of the minds' of decision makers, and more importantly with the people on da street we'll continue blogging.

But could someone out there, anyone, explain to me how a post like this gets 57 responses:

In that last blog I talked about cheerfully sending a text that now makes me cringe. And it will make me cringe every time I think about it for a while.
So I am going to have to try to not think about it.We all have these moments. We all have moments that when we think of them make us just writhe with embarrassment ....

Stay with me here, it gets worse:

I was about 7 and I really liked a boy in my class called Murray Hovard. He was the best looking boy in the class (I was very deep when I was 7) and he was really popular.
Anyway, one day (this is at Devonport Primary School) during little play, it had been raining and I was running, and I ran past Murray Hovard and wouldn’t you know it! Right in front of him I hit a slime patch on the asphalt and fell over!!! Now this is really REALLY uncool when you are 7....I was mortified, and as I went down and hit the ground I went into damage control (Lord knows what possessed me to do this, honestly) and I turned the fall into a forward roll.
Lovely Murray must have thought he was experiencing a sugar rush - who the hell would just do a forward roll in the rain, on wet ground, all by themselves, out of the blue?

Honetsly, I don't know who would Bridget. But neither do I know how an organization can possibly justify paying someone money to write this shit.

But there's more:

I picked myself up, brushed myself down and sauntered off, head held high, CRINGING inside.

You're not the only one.

Another one was, as an adult, being all fabulously frocked up ‘n cool’n groovy and woteva and going into a certain ice cream parlour and wanting a chocolate ripple ice cream. The ice cream shop was full, and I stood out because of how I was dressed, which made it all the more painful when I couldn’t say the word “RIPPLE”. I have had a stutter all my life. It comes and goes, is worse and better at diffferent times, but it is always there, lurking, waiting to booby trap me and make me look like a fool. So I tried to say “ripple’ but all that would come out was ‘rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’ !
And the young girl behind the counter said, loudly, and dryly: “Ripple?”
I just wanted the ground to swallow me I felt sooooooooo stupid!

Would someone please just shoot me in the face.

Labels: kill me