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Below are the 4 most recent journal entries recorded in Start at the bottom and work up's LiveJournal:

Monday, March 29th, 2010
10:10 pm
А вы хотите зарабатывать с блога?
Всем привет!

Недавно заметил в блоге Игоря Бигдана рекламный баннер, где он предлагает рекламу в своем блоге. И тоже задумался над тем, как бы получить хотя бы небольшую копеечку со своего увлечения.

Наткнулся на форуме блоггеров http://www.bloggers.su/forum/ на раздел о монетизации блогов http://www.bloggers.su/forum/forumdisplay.php?f=29, там обсуждаются многие вопросы, смысл которых мне непонятен. Тем не менее, некоторые из участников озвучивали цифры, и у некоторых якобы доход с блога был такой, что с основной работы можно было уйти... я бы тоже так хотел...

Особенно заинтересовала тема: Как начать зарабатывать на блоге? В ней новичкам, в т.ч. и мне, объясняют как найти рекламодателей для блога, какими способами вообще можно заработать... короче интересно блин и перспективно, как мне кажется.

А вы что думаете об этом?
Tuesday, July 12th, 2005
10:00 am
A shower of crap may yield great rewards...
The battered wellington boot concealed some suprises indeed, for out of the upended boot came: a shower of sand, a comb, three small mis-matched buttons, a bunch of keys, a teaspoon and a very bewildered hamster.
'How odd', thought Henry, 'only three buttons.'
Something was tugging at his brain.
Something was definitely trying to get his attention.
Was it the spoon? he'd seen spoons before, this one - upon examination - didn't appear to be anything special. Perhaps something about... the... comb? No, no, not the comb.
He sat back and scratched his head mighty wearily. Somebody was indeed playing silly buggers and he was just beginning...


The bloody buggery keys!
He seized them, leapt joyfully into the air and began a dance around the circle of crap that had showered from the occult wellington, spinning and leaping... and gasping... and folding gently back into the sand.

Never dance on a tropical beach with a hangover, no matter how important it is that you've just found your van keys.

"Pounding Headache... check
Wellington boots... check
Van Keys... check
pile of crap... check..."
'Hang on' thought Henry, 'I still haven't said anything in this epic yet... so who's doing the talking?'
The hamster looked up at him and shrugged (as best a hamster can) and intoned, in a voice like the squeak of a midnight exercise wheel that's smoked 40 a day for a decade:
"Well it's not like you're doing much to sort things out, is it!"
Thursday, June 30th, 2005
4:15 pm
Drunken Crabs!
Henry stood up creakily, steadying his pounding head, hitching up his pants (now slightly less prehistoric for a good old dose of seawater) and squinted out to sea.
No ships
No planes
And certainly no 1998 slightly dented postal vans.
He reached into his pants for another mini bottle of booze and cursed quietly to find that the others had all vanished (had he looked a little further down the beach he might have discovered why. DRUNKEN CRABS!!) So, sitting down with a sigh he reached for the blue wellies, from whence they came he knew not, and began to examine them.
They were a little battered and bore only the mystical incription "Dunlop" and upon the sole a small number seven.
Something occult, no doubt, he thought to himself.
But within one of the wellies something shifted... something not large and not small... He upended the wellie over the sand.
10:23 am
In The Beginning...
Once upon a time, a long long time ago, Henry awoke one morning and couldn't remember quite where he was.
Or where his clothes were.
Or his keys.
Or his van.
This was a problem since Henry was both a postman and an alcoholic and could do without his van no more than he could manage without his head. His van was his life, his van was his bond and his van had been full of two days worth of undelivered Christmas post.
This, he knew even through the stew of hangover and spew, was a problem.
Now Henry was a good man and Henry was a kind man and Henry was a drunk man on the verge of being fired but above all of these things, Henry was a postman.
This he knew in his bones.
And if a postman Henry was to remain then it was imperative that he retrieve the tools of his trade and be on his was before the day was out.
Valiantly, Henry tugged the emergency mini-bar bottle of Scotch from his prehistoric pants, bit the top off, took a swig and - as the world swam back into focus - began to wonder where the bloody hell he was.
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