What's so great about a travel blog anyway? Or a biography, or any historical novel or non-fiction writing for entertainment or any story at all ever? What is so interesting about the events, real or imagined, that someone else has written down for me and anyone else to read? More happens in any one day of any person's life, anywhere on earth, than can ever be chronicled in the pages of a book, or reproduced in film or as a song. All of the shit that you read in this blog happened to me; in real life yes, but to ME. Maybe it's true, fuck, maybe it's not, you don't know, but more important than the truth or any random detail is that it's my story. Me.
So why should anyone else care? Andd why should I care about anyone else's? When my life in real time is, without a doubt, infinitely more interesting than some words on a page. Not just because it's mine, but because I'm living it in real time, right here, ass in the hotseat, face in the mud. For fuck's sake yesterday I saw the most violent sex scene anyone is ever likely to see on this earth. Does I matter that it was two flies having at it on the table in a service station? No of course it fucking doesn't, that shit happened. If I had been reading the travel blog of some sad, attention starved, half-caste, angry, twenty-something porn addict then I could have missed those two tiny creatures dance their timeless dance 20cm from my outstandingly average chicken burger and my life would have been markedly poorer for having missed it.
I don't know why reading, hearing, or seeing the world through someone else's filtered imagination can often be far preferable to experiencing it first hand. And I guess I never will.