Superfluous

I am superfluous. I have spent this afternoon, post child pick up, satisfying my need to peer into other lives by reading blogs. Greedily living vicariously via the achievements of many, some known to me, most strangers. I have drooled over delicious concoctions from incredible cooks, been inspired by those working towards helping themselves and our planet, sighed and cried over amazing photos and words designed to inspire.

And then I come back to me. *Sigh*. What can I do? What purpose does my little blog do other than let me whinge, whine, rant and moan in a relatively quiet and unobtrusive space? I once had *ambitions*. I had *plans* and *desires*, even *goals*. I cannot sew, I can manage basic meals, sadly similar to the meat and three veg dishes my mother served to us, I certainly cannot paint and though I sometimes fluke a couple of good photos, it is not by talent or design. *Sigh*.

I really should give this reading away, it is terribly bad for my self-esteem. Maybe superfluous was the wrong term, I think inadequate is more appropriate. *Sigh*...