How is it for you?

I'm writing an article for Arts Disability Culture magazine on blogging and disabilities/mental health. I want to know what mindbloggers or any disabled bloggers out there think. I won't use any names whatsoever. Answer any or all of these questions on the comment page to get your views across.
Has blogging helped you?
Do you see it is a therapy, or a hobby?
Have you ever had nasty comments or cyber-stalking from someone who has read your blog? If so, how did this make you feel?
Have you ever found yourself blogging when you should be doing other things, because you feel a responsibility to your readers or a fear of becoming less popular if you don't post regularly?
Is being part of a blog community such as mindbloggling better than going it alone? If so, why?
Have you ever regretted or worried about something you have written in your blog?
On the whole, is blogging good or bad for society?

Of course, feel free to add anything else that you think about blogging, and if you do want your blog name used, let me know, otherwise I will make up aliases for everyone whose comments I use.
Cheers,
Clare xxx

This is me performing in Borders bookshop in the Bullring. I was commissioned by Brook Avisory Service to write a poem to celebrate their anniversary and then perform it at a special event. I suffer with anxiety, depression and fibromyalgia, so performing is difficult, but I've managed to do it a few times. Anyway, below is the poem that I wrote for them.

You Don’t Know Where They’ve Been

Gary tells her he is okay,
he’s had a vasectomy
and he gives blood regularly,
so they can go bareback,
it feels more natural that way.
Laura obliges and opens up,
crying in the waiting room later,
passing time, reading out-of-date
magazines and panicking
that she might be pregnant,
and her Dad is going to kill her.
Donna says she is okay,
she’s on the pill and it’s been
a long time since her last fuck,
she’s not infected with anything
but lust for you, Bay-bee.
Ben can’t believe his luck
he’s fancied her for ages,
he can’t think of safety while
the slippery walls of her cave
are sucking him into oblivion.
Simon and Mark are okay,
they say, only mates,
having a laugh that night,
a bit drunk, it’s not like
they did anything wrong,
Right?
Of course they’re not gay,
lady killers, the pair of them,
on the pull tonight to prove it,
dance with a pair of right goers,
then give them false numbers.
Johnny is lonely, he used to
be one of a pack, now he lies
forgotten,
past his sell-by-date,
in a dusty bathroom cabinet.
He always wanted to be
a superhero, to slay chlamydia
and fight the advancing hordes
of gonorrhoea and herpes.
But he could only watch,
a mute witness to the reckless
mingling of bodily fluids, and cower
when he saw HIV stalking its prey,
powerless to save those who
would not accept his protection.
Gary
Laura
Donna
Ben
Simon
Mark
R.I.P

Clare

But I want it!

I have been overcome with desire this week. The object of my affection is a new, shiny, gorgeous, pink laptop. I already have a laptop, which I bought in October last year, so it's difficult to justify the purchase of another one. These are the reasons I've come up with so far:

1) I've been offered money-off coupons towards it, so really I'll be saving money,
2) The one I have already isn't as good. The new one is faster, has more memory, and isn't as heavy to lug around (I know I don't really go anywhere, but I might if I had the new laptop),
3) The one I have now is not pink.

I think the third reason is the main attraction. Okay, I've read all the blurb and it has a list of impressive initials and numbers and stuff that I don't really understand. I use my desktop computer for internet and e-mail, I only use the laptop for writing, so I wouldn't use most of the functions anyway. But who wants a boring grey laptop when you can get a lovely hot pink one?

I'm going to have to come up with some better arguments.

Clare

Live Earth

I must admit to being a bit sceptical about this Live Earth concert. Immense power usage in the stadium, travel for the bands and their people, and not to mention the fans, would seem to be a funny way to contribute to slowing down climate change. But the combination of the music and the Live Earth pledges being flashed behind the bands was a powerful one. I hope the message gets through to people like my council. I have a recycling box, but I can't recycle plastic or cardboard in it. The only facilities that I know of to recycle my cardboard is at the council tip, which I don't go to as I don't drive. I get a friend to recycle my plastic bottles for me, as there is a facility for recycling them on a supermarket car park near their house. But what about all the other plastic? I hate to think of it all going to landfill, polluting the Earth for future generations.
Anyway, back to the concert. The Pussycat Dolls, from what I saw, consist of some women singing and doing what appeared to be a routine that, up til now, I thought only strippers or lapdancers would do. They had put their make-up on with shovels and seemed to have mistakenly appeared onstage in their underwear.
The Foo Fighters were awesome. Blistering lyrics and guitar juxtaposed with Dave Grohl's voice, sometimes raw, often melodic, was as close to a religious experience as you can get sitting on your sofa.
Madonna was, ahem, interesting. Scarily thin, her voice seemed to be struggling and her attempt to rock across the stage in a pair of high heels with her guitar was ludicrous. She also seemed to have got all her choir girls and boys from a Victorian timewarp. Boys in short trousers and long socks and fresh-faced, angelic girls are not the kids I remember from my school choir. In fact, the only reason to be in the choir was to get out of a science or humanities period. Consequently, a lot of us choir girls and boys ended up parents at tender ages, owing to missing crucial sex education lessons.
To top it all off, Madonna had some weird old Romany gypsies warbling and dancing to a completely different song than everyone else. A bizarre choice of songs did nothing to help her set, and it all ended up looking far too Eurovision for my taste.
Clare xxx

Considerably Richer Than Yow

I’ve just had dinner in a family pub/restaurant next to the ‘Considerably richer than yow’ characters from Harry Enfield. There was the Mum: a hard faced, blonde streaked, fake tanned stick insect with inflated bosoms and gold jewellery covering her. There was another woman, who was obviously Granny - the same as Mum, but older and more leathery.
There was Dad, with Jeremy Clarkson hair, an open-necked shirt straining to cover his huge belly, and a thick gold chain around his neck.
Mum was upset with the children; Chanel - no, I’m not making this up - Sky and a teenaged girl whose name I didn’t catch, who was whining loudly that the only thing she wanted for Christmas was a Rolex. All of the girls were dressed in baby pink and dripping with jewellery. Even the baby.
The mother kept telling the baby to behave herself, but did absolutely nothing to keep her amused, and left it to the girls to follow her around and make sure she was safe, while Mommy dear drank Chardonnay - or maybe that was one of the other kids’ names? I get confused.
At one point, after hearing her mother complaining that the baby wasn’t behaving and seeing her pouting her collagen filled lips once too often, one of the older girls told the mother that she was embarrassing her, and to shut up. The mother’s reply was pure class; she slapped the teenager across the face.
All the money they kept loudly talking about - twenty grand this, forty grand that - didn’t stop them availing of as much free salad and bread as they could carry.
They were vulgar, crass, loud and inconsiderate of other families; considerably richer than me, of course, but only in financial terms. As members of the human race, they were dirt poor.