What Alanis Morissette said.

I like reading. My shelves are filled with books: Little Golden ones and yellowing Paul Jennings novels through to books for grown-ups with small print. But I'll read anything to stave off boredom. Cereal packets, leaflets, free newspapers — even trashy magazines in the doctor's waiting room. At a computer terminal the choices are even more varied; blogs probably already outnumber the world human population. Throw in some online news, Twitter and Facebook, and you'll never be without reading material. Technically speaking.

Sometimes, especially at night, I surpass my daily allowance of online content. I'll happily "surf" through a web of sites, then quite suddenly lose tolerance for all of them. The topical witticisms, humour-injected rants and conversationalist prose stir up inexplicable frustrations. These feelings are amplified significantly by attention-seeking blog-whores who post anything in an attempt to build or maintain their readership. (Ah, yes. See title.) My blood-boiling frustration with the blogosphere makes even good online writing intolerable. Words, words, words. I could drown in them.

I've wondered whether my feelings are a product of eye strain, bad posture, sleep deprivation and — possibly — a hint of jealousy. But, I hasten to add, those side-effects can accompany reading an enthralling book at 1am. And I never grow tired of reading books. Maybe I should stick to them.