Why do I blog? Because the walls are melting and the air tastes like static, and the only weapon I’ve got left is a typewriter wired to the veins. Blogging is not a hobby, it’s a survival mechanism in a world gone radioactive with noise and neon. Every post is a flare shot into the void, a manic attempt to signal other half-mad travelers that yes, the ground is shifting under your feet too, and no, you’re not the only one choking on the fumes of modern existence.

It’s not noble. It’s not pretty. It’s a bad trip poured onto the page, words slouching out like drunken prophets, howling truths nobody asked for. I blog because if I don’t, the bats in my skull take control, they swarm, they screech, they demand tribute. Blogging is the only way to keep them docile, to keep from tearing through the wallpaper of reality with my teeth.

Every sentence is a roll of the dice at the cosmic roulette wheel: will it come out a confession, a hallucination, or a prophecy of doom? Doesn’t matter, the blog wants blood, and it takes it. The screen becomes a desert highway at midnight, headlights stretching out forever, and I am barreling down it with no brakes, screaming into the typeface while the universe grins back with jagged teeth.

Why do I blog? Because without it, the whole fragile circus collapses and I’ll be left holding nothing but the ashes of my own static-fried brain.