As you do for the holidays, you go home. With your tail between your legs, your heart in your hands, or your ego on blast, you and your Oxford commas go home. And, in the spirit of the season, this prodigal blogging daughter is coming home … to her blog.
O, come let us adore her.
Not that you’ve been gnawing your nails in anticipation of this moment, mind you. I’m not arrogant enough to assume that. (Well, yes, yes, I am, but only a little.) But just like my actual hometown, I’ve turned my nose up at this blog for no good reason, and I know my day of reckoning is nigh.
Maybe you remember a time when I used to call myself “a writer” — I vaguely do. But I wouldn’t adorn myself with such a lofty label anymore. Sure, I journal (with pen and paper, thank you very much), but that’s not creation; it’s confusion. I tweet with the fury of a thousand scorned whores and fool myself into believing that that’s a pithy substitute for authorship. But the 1,001 of us have something in common: in the wake of primal failures, we’ve found something better to do that demands less effort and more immediate satiation.
(I hope that analogy made any sense at all. ‘Cause I’m not actually comparing myself to whores, per se, like, not in the sense of sexual promiscuity, but like, how I used to be a blogger and now I just tweet a lot and I … you know, forget it. Use your imagination.)
And really, how many times have I come here making excuses for my lack of writing, anyway? God, who wants to read that? But I do that. Every so often, I have this inexplicable compulsion to justify my blogging dearth to some invisible panel that cares why another girl with another blog isn’t writing. I don’t always act on it, but it’s like a faint hiss in my ear: “Wriiiiiiite in your bloooooog.” (It sounds like Voldemort.)
And my Internet-inflated ego (duh, I so have one of those, duh twice) tells me that someone — anyone (maybe the good people learning English in Peru?) — wants to read my drivel. To relate to that. To sympathize with that. To use that as a preeminent educational resource. To judge that. To roll their eyes at that.
Oh c’mon, I do it, too, so don’t skewer me for reading your mind. I hate some of your blogs and so it’s definitely possible that some of you hate mine. Unlikely, but possible.
Any attempt at an explanation is going to seem self-important (which it is) and trite (which it also is). But you know, God, I’ll skip that so I can be real with you for a hot minute: the look-at-me age is grating. Not to get all hipster on you, but I’ve been blogging since 1999 (LiveJournal, what what), and informally experimenting with social media (as opposed to formally experimenting, which is what I do now) since at least 2003 … and aren’t you tired of looking at me? Of looking at everyone else? I know I am. (Change your avatar.)
But also ugh. This is not a manifesto. I’m simply trying to coherently string words together that exceed 140 characters at a clip.
(Refreshing, right? I’ll continue.)
I’m not bashing social media on the whole. Really. I mean, I am bashing Facebook, because man, I’m always bashing Facebook, and I’m really looking forward to the social network that’ll replace it. If you’ve spent any time around me in the past year, you’re probably annoyed with my anti-Facebook rhetoric already. I would say I’m sorry, but, like, I’m not. But I’m sure I will make you sorry that you ever got me on the subject of Facebook, so let’s just not.
But it’s not social media itself that’s the problem, though. Not exactly. It’s how we’ve bastardized it and made it more loathsome than its proponents probably ever intended. It’s the behavior and expectations that accompany it. Like, maybe I’m over making you look at me all the time. Maybe I’m over looking at you all the time. Maybe I’m over living under the critical gaze of technology. Selfies steal my soul, yo. (Also, don’t get me started on selfies.)
But am I really “over it”? I want you to read what I write, don’t I? I want you to read this post or I would just write it in my stupid journal (it’s pretty) with my stupid Sharpie pens (they’re perfect) for my stupid cat (he’s actually just an asshole) to read while I’m work, right? I want you to believe that what I have to say is important … or I wouldn’t put it out there. Right? I mean, right?
So, what is it then? Look away, click elsewhere — or subscribe, follow, like, retweet, share?
You don’t have to answer that. Well, I mean, you could, but I don’t know that we’re going to reach a definitive conclusion here. So, don’t worry, no pressure.
(Seriously, could this post sound any more like the last post I wrote a year and a half ago?)
(Also, what’s with me and parentheses? This is new. Punctuation of choice? De-emphasis in 2014? Anyway. Let’s focus.)
So yeah. I wrote a post. And if there’s a next time, I’ll come more prepared and more coherent. Swear it, I will. And hopefully it won’t have anything to do with my own existential crisis about the insignificance of Internet significance.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some comment spam to eradicate. To the choppa!