Who are you, mysterious American Macintosh Safari user? I know you're reading this; you check this thing three times a day, sometimes more. Are you a googlebot? Are you a stalker? Are you that dude from the bus stop who tells me how good I smell. 


I'm just curious, because I just checked my stats, and you pretty much double my pagehits. Daily. That's you. I've written a story about you, mysterious obsessive traveler from cyberspace. You are Bruce (or possibly Veronica), you are thirty-six (or possibly some other age), you have a very nice hat (or possibly not), and I've written an entire backstory to explain your presence. I don't mind telling you, Bruce (or Veronica), this backstory? It's probably one of the more interesting things I've made up in my long, long history of elaborate lies, and I've only spent approximately ten seconds constructing it.

I feel we have a connection, Bruce (or Veronica), even if it is utterly one-sided; I talk constantly, you read constantly, you see what I mean, right? You're picking up what I'm putting down.

Tell me who you are, Bruce (or Veronica). Or don't. I can continue to make up stories that gradually increase in their relative fictitiousness as this strange relationship continues to stretch on into the void. Eventually I will conclude that you are, in fact, the silence of the eavesdropping universe, at which point my arrogance will grow large enough that it will start walking around independently of me. 


Never mind that the universe doesn't need a Safari browser or even a Macintosh in order to determine what is going on in my head. In a world of hypothetical situations, I don't see why I shouldn't see the best possible scenario happening.