We all like to take all the credit for the good things that happen in our lives. That's perfectly normal. You should feel good about being just like everybody else. It's fun to quit, escape, or lie down in dead defeat. Victory is over rated. Triumphalism is for workaholic over-achievers. You just want to eat some candy, forget about blogging, and take a juicy nap. The idea of a nice little nap, it pulls you with a euphoric vortex of swirling comfort zoning.

Fine. You can finally relax and never again think about comment spam, RSS, trackbacks, blogocombat, MSM vs. blogosphere, frequent posting, blogrolls, feedrolls, custom sidebar search engines, Technorati, Robert Scoble, Jason Calacanis, blog media empires, the dangers of personal blogging, link love, reciprocal commenting, blog scorching, or template tweaking.

But you can't avoid the inevitable. Sooner or later someone's going to ask, "WHY?"

Blame it on the audience who hated you. They made you quit. They were never there for you. Even when you wrote the most prolix and revelatory confessional sobbing that this world has ever seen. Even when you kissed the butts of A Listers and meme-kickers. Even when you demanded that lurkers post comments or go away forever.

Even when you displayed semi-naughty photos of yourself, and used Hollywood celebrity names in dozens of sequential post titles. Even when you did a 30 part series, with "sucks!" as the last word of the title.

You did nothing wrong. You did what everyone told you a blogger's supposed to do. And still, though you built it, NO ONE CAME.

Blame the audience. Then have a blast being a newly liberated Non-blogger! You wuss.