Alright, this is it. I can't do this anymore because nobody gives a hoot about Mary Wilkinson living on the edge of the bog in Ireland. Nobody gives a hoot because we are all out there trying to be heard, to be noticed, to have someone say how great we are and it just dawned on me today as I mashed yet another pot of potatoes for the family meal that nobody cares about me in my apron in my kitchen in Ireland who just gave out stink to her dog because he was ripping open a pillow to bits even though he is four years old, no one cares that she opened a bottle of wine, a decent Cote du Rhone, that she has so many wild and crazy thoughts about life, that her kids love her to bits, that she stood outside her back porch tonight and marvelled at the once again apricot coloured sky and the segment of a silvery moon appearing in the Southern sky. No one gives a hoot and as soon as she (the aforementioned person) as soon as she realises that the better and good luck to all those wonderful writers out there with the wonderful insights and breathing techniques and magical potions and websites to beat the band, because, guess what, in the end it doesn't really matter. Not one hoot.