.on blogging.
i think because my blog is public, i am less likely to disclose the kind of strange, gross, and embarrasing things that i will in a standard paper journal. a journal can be hig under a pillow or mattress or stowed in an underwear drawer. it can be torn, crumpled, soaked with water, burned alive. but once typed, emailed, and documented online, confessions take off meandering on an unstoppable journey. embedded deep and firm in our collective database, we know that what shows up on a google search is only the tip of the iceburg.
i think this contributes to my reluctance to write on my blog about concerns that consume my mind for most of my waking hours. instead, i write posts about "reasons to quit smoking" or "hey, i should read more books!" these are not worries that wake me at 4 am, armpits damp and blankets twisted. those concerns should be shredded, hidden, or shoved down the garbage displosal. or at least i should have that option.
the humor here is that there's nobody in the world who reads – or even knows about – this pithy little blog. even if browsing the blogspot database, this is just a moldy pea in the vast and rich compost of internet diaries.
people get fired for blogs. for complaining about a coworker or work policy. myriad disastrous social dramas have been launched thanks to a snarky blog entry. but with a world population of 6.5 billion people, who the fuck cares?
i think therein lies the problem: there are 6.5 billion people in the world. and, so i was told on sesame street, age 4, we are each as unique and precious as a snowflake. no two of us are alike. and we are all created equal. and who the hell knows what coffee tastes like for the other 6.5 people in the world. who knows where the ink stain is on somebody elses coffee table. does anybody else's left knee ache shin splints? i don't just feel unique – from my perspective, i'm the only goddamn person here. i'm the only person here who can feel, touch, taste, see, and hear. and i'm overwhelmed on a daily basis by the tiny apartment i live in, the same 3.7 miles i drive to work every day on the same route, the same nine to five daily grind and email-checking and hello-how-are-you-i'm-fine-how-was-your-weekend-it-was-great-thanks bullshit. it sure feels important. it's my whole world. was that joke i made funny? was that a genuine chuckle, or just a polite, pitying laugh? and even if it wasn't – if my watercooler joke was a bomb, if i find a lump in my breast and it turns out to be cancerous, if the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes and there's nothing that can be done about it – it matters precisely as much as picking one grain of rice out of a vat of 6.5 billion rice grains and flushing it down the toilet. in short: it don't matter nothing at all.
which brings me to my point: is there really any reason to withhold the juicy details on my blog? probably not.
i think this contributes to my reluctance to write on my blog about concerns that consume my mind for most of my waking hours. instead, i write posts about "reasons to quit smoking" or "hey, i should read more books!" these are not worries that wake me at 4 am, armpits damp and blankets twisted. those concerns should be shredded, hidden, or shoved down the garbage displosal. or at least i should have that option.
the humor here is that there's nobody in the world who reads – or even knows about – this pithy little blog. even if browsing the blogspot database, this is just a moldy pea in the vast and rich compost of internet diaries.
people get fired for blogs. for complaining about a coworker or work policy. myriad disastrous social dramas have been launched thanks to a snarky blog entry. but with a world population of 6.5 billion people, who the fuck cares?
i think therein lies the problem: there are 6.5 billion people in the world. and, so i was told on sesame street, age 4, we are each as unique and precious as a snowflake. no two of us are alike. and we are all created equal. and who the hell knows what coffee tastes like for the other 6.5 people in the world. who knows where the ink stain is on somebody elses coffee table. does anybody else's left knee ache shin splints? i don't just feel unique – from my perspective, i'm the only goddamn person here. i'm the only person here who can feel, touch, taste, see, and hear. and i'm overwhelmed on a daily basis by the tiny apartment i live in, the same 3.7 miles i drive to work every day on the same route, the same nine to five daily grind and email-checking and hello-how-are-you-i'm-fine-how-was-your-weekend-it-was-great-thanks bullshit. it sure feels important. it's my whole world. was that joke i made funny? was that a genuine chuckle, or just a polite, pitying laugh? and even if it wasn't – if my watercooler joke was a bomb, if i find a lump in my breast and it turns out to be cancerous, if the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes and there's nothing that can be done about it – it matters precisely as much as picking one grain of rice out of a vat of 6.5 billion rice grains and flushing it down the toilet. in short: it don't matter nothing at all.
which brings me to my point: is there really any reason to withhold the juicy details on my blog? probably not.
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