It's that time of the year/quarter/month for the ultra serious, disclaimerrific type post. I'm sure it'll be of little interest to most.
I too often forget I'm not in a vacuum. I don't want to accept that it's not May '03 and no one that I haven't know forever/have never seen is reading this. I forget that everything I write has to be stripped of any resemblance/reference to people I actually interact with. (I can remember that in case of the job because it's as simple as I can't afford to be fired and I'm not trying to be assed out like that.) I let this place get a little ungauzy and then get all paranoid/annoyed checking out the traffic/activity log. Then comes the further stripping of meaning until I chafe and say "fuck it, it's mine! I'll write what I want!" More scrutiny and paranoia. Rinse and repeat.
I seriously don't get what strangers are interested in. The misadventures of an early 20something, foul-mouthed, narcissistic, self-important, self-deprecating, undermining, usually unhappy underachiever powered by booze, money, music, and NYC. (Actually, fuck that, I'd read that shit too!) I mean, it's me but it's not me at the same time. Words on a screen may be less than the sum of the parts -- or greater if a snapshot of the wrong time got thrown up there. I'm not completely mental because this is the wide open internet and all, but I do scratch my head looking at the super specific activity log results and wonder what the hell someone(s) are looking for. Is it sheer nosiness? Vanity searches perhaps? Here's the scoop: I fucked them all. Any further questions?
Writing like I do leaves me open to getting my feelings hurt a lot. I obviously take myself rather seriously (sometimes), so I was semi-traumatized by the outing because it's not like this is so high-profile that it gives me some sort of pleasure to be known as "that blog girl." I've killed a few budding things -- mostly inadvertantly, rarely passive-aggressively -- because they read something vaguely referencing them and it made them angry. I'm also not so far up my own ass that I can't tell when I'm being downright like a bull in the china shop but sometimes I just roll with it. Those situations in general make me sad, but I think somewhere deep down I knew this outlet/ego feeder would last longer for me than they did passing through. I think I've gotten a lot better at protecting identities but that's always up for interpretation.
As Bill and I were discussing the other day, bloggers are fucked up. We think we're all so important because strangers are constantly checking to see what new thing we have to say. I know a shrink would make a pretty penny just off my surface neuroses. Then again, everyone's fucked up. I think I dealt with more crazies pre-blog because at least now they know beforehand if they can deal with another drama queen in the relationship. The blame goes both ways usually, but I'm good for the "you read this, so you think you know me? Let me show you how you don't!" Luckily, this is totally a useful tool because I can crossreference dumbass mistakes I've made with a few keystrokes.
I'd say about 75% of the life passes through here but there's plenty of stuff that will never ever be referenced. It would probably explain a lot of the downright bipolar postings if I did, but that's neither here nor there. It is what is though and so am I, I suppose. But, this current incarnation of the blog is fucking weird and I think I'll be tinkering.
Posted by Candicissima at April 2, 2005 05:23 PM