Was It Something I Said?

Poor Impulse Control, this modest endeavor, this vibrant equivocator, is the kind of blog you read because I am engaging, and you haven't yet found a way to give me jewel-encrusted gifts. Let's face facts: I amuse you, and I'd be a bargain at twice the price despite the many moments I tick you off or leave messages on your cell that'd make sailors blush. Or perhaps because of them.

So. There we are: Me, me, me. It's all about me.

Thus, I have been surprised and perturbed to find myself staring at PIC's stats and noting that someone has added the 12.23.04 entry Pointy, Bitey, Sharp Sharp Sharp to their reading list. Several smart people I trust to tell me the absolute truth because they fear my ability to find cutlery anywhere have been unable to track down who's linked to this causerie. The strange, silent attention is creepy. I can't tell whether I should bake brownies or boobietrap my kitchen window - though anything involving boobies is bound to be fun, isn't it?

I've met me. In fact, most of the time I recognize me right away. Who're you?