Hey Hernani. As am unwashed, ill-dressed and in sorely advanced state of carbon silicon bonding, needless to impart, I Shall Make No Sense. Attribute, please, an egregious platform game. And, ah, not my own poor and customary lexical cassoulet. I reckon a blog, or indeed any form of blather, that does away with its author is ginchy cool. Anonymity might, in fact, augment the volume of a written notion. Like that bloke who wrote that book purportedly about the Clinton administration of which an average fillum was made starring John Travolta. The glaring, present absence of the author made the text so much more thrilling and, apparently, 'incisive'.
In any case, I did want to egest - and please remember that I have not urinated in some 18 hours due to the evil and digital ministrations of the Electronic Arts corporation - that the author who swathes himself in the armour of biography and data (a/s/l) might be considered a naff coward. It is good and it is writerly to conist in the unsettling broth of the net as bodies without organs or names.