To quote Theodoric of York, “Naaaaaaahhhhh!”

As someone who has been blogging for two and a half years, I’m fairly sensitive to the power of one simple word: “me.” It’s difficult to stay away from the personal pronoun “I” if you want to give one of these, uh, online-examples-of-mental-doodling a personal touch. But “me”? It has a whole different feel.

Think about it. That’s for me. It’s all about me. “Stand By Me.” You can count on me. “The Spy Who Loved Me.” Lean on me. “Roger & Me.” “Just Shoot Me.” “Play Misty for Me.” And so on. Me, me, me. It’s the cry of the self-absorbed, of the Jessica Walters among us insisting, as they might say, “You can’t ignore me!”

There’s a reason for my obsession with “me.” My colleague Hilary Kraus turned me on to a blog by a New York woman named Stephanie Klein , a woman who, as the New York Times says, “has been blogging about the intimate details of her life, from her affinity for rainy days and grilled cheese sandwiches to her sexual escapades, including one that involved a stranger and a can of Pam cooking spray.”

Right, and my wife gets upset if I repeat even the most harmless of the clever things that she occasionally shouts in my direction. Maybe that’s why, unlike Ms. Klein, I don’t have a book deal. Or it could be, again quoting the Times, that I’m not “a 29-year-old art director with freckles and long red curls like Botticelli’s Venus.”

Or, hey, this just occurred to my inner Steve Martin . It could be that I’m just not that interesting.