Anybody who knows enough to maybe be called an expert, probably knows that there is no such thing as an expert.

In fact, the old Dunning-Kruger suggests to me that the only expert out there might be a frog in a gently-warmed pot.

I am confident that I’m not an expert in anything. I’m as confident in that as I am me not being a frog in a pot. I’m not sure why I would write anything, and I’m not sure that anybody would benefit from reading what I do write; it’s likely the case that any thoughts-turned-taps-turned-bits-turned-words-turned-impulses travelling though your probably-reasonably-well-connected synapses derail some perfectly sensical formations along the way, and only disimprove your reason and your day. But for some reason, I want to write something. Or maybe some things. I might make a habit of it.