The Act of Blogging

I write to be sane. I write to work things out in my head. I write so I do not need to spend the time going to a therapist every week. And I have to admit, the entries where I am working out things are the more interesting (I think), rather than the "what I did today" genre. I do not write to please anyone. I write with an audience in mind, somewhat, but I assume that audience is going to be five people -- Mom, Dad, Mere, Princess and E2 . . . maybe six including E1. And although it is flattering that other people would spend time, which they cannot get back, looking at what I write; I am still basically writing for myself.

I had an interesting comment interaction last night, which makes me what to set some things straight. The comment feature seems to be a blessing and a curse on most blogs . . . both dooce and Matthew Good write about it often (only blogs that I read with any regularity) and have turned off the comment feature on their blogs . . . and maybe we're just extremely soft-skinned. But people feel the need to offer advice. Fine. Great. I put this stuff out there. Go for it.

(More comment fodder: I, in no way, am comparing myself to Heather Armstrong or Matthew Good in any other capacity other than comment difficulties. They are both amazingly talented people, with fabulous websites, and they get 1000 comments a post . . . seems silly that I am complaining about my 3.)

But when the advice involves how I've somehow wronged you in some way . . . well, keep in mind that my mother and father read this. My email is at the top of the page. There's another one in the profile. You could spread the venom (or the advice) that way, I suppose.

Why don't I just delete the comments? Well, I have a problem with deleting things just because I don't agree with them . . . or just don't like them . . . or what have you. If I comment is published about an entry, I'll leave it. I may pull the post but for some reason it seems unethical to delete the comment.

As for saving me from being a whiny, judgemental bitch, please see the first paragraph of this entry. I am not writing to please you. You could just stop reading that entry if it displeases you. You could just not type the address into explorer's (or modzilla, or whatever's) address bar. You could stop looking at my site. You could pretend that you don't know me. You could shun me. There is an amazing amount of crap on the internet, my site included . . . you could look at that other crap instead. I hear there is free porn.

And I know that you're trying to be helpful (at least I prefer to think that you are trying to be helpful). But these entries are showing you the inside of my brain, at a single moment in time. And how would you like it if someone told you that what you were feeling at a given moment was wrong, whiny, moaning, bad, stupid, (fill in blank here)? And for those who think "Well, you are publishing for the general public. You could have a journal." Yes, you are right. I could.

Most of the time, the comments are from my mother. Which is fine. She'll voice her opinion no matter what, so I'll get that information whether or not she chooses to put it in writing. And she's my mother . . . the only one I have. So she gets to do what she wants . . . and say what she wants. As for everyone else, I don't want to say "don't write hurtful crap" because sometimes I need to be checked but if it's really intense . . . again, you have my email. You don't have to call me a bitch in public.

Thanks.

Okay, Totally Creeped Out

So you see that little photostream over there? Right over there on the right? With the changing pictures, that don't change all that much because I rarely upload to flickr?

Well, I looked at the flickr account because someone mentioned my truck . . . and I thought "Hey, maybe I should look again and see what people see on that thing . . ." And oh, someone has "favorited" one of my pictures and it's been viewed a 140 more times than any of the others. Why? Because he or she is into chicks in gas masks. There's a whole group of them, with a picture collection of different women wearing gas masks.

And all that time when I was joking about quitting my job and going into the foot fetish website business . . . when I should have been looking at the gas mask market. Didn't even know there was a gas mask market. Shows you how thorough my marketing research was . . .

(No, really Mom, I'm not going to quit my job . . . I didn't do any market research . . . and I'm sure that people just stay at their computers . . . no one is coming to find me because I'm wearing a gas mask. And there are no pictures of my feet. It will be fine. It's flattering in a way.)

More than the Hate Deserves

Not to give anyone more reaction than they deserve . . . but the damn address is iamsmarterthanu . . . what were you expecting? Come on now.

As for the self-centered part, let's see . . . I live with . . . oh, that's right . . . and I can't talk about work . . . and I'm allergic to all things animal, plant and mineral . . . or maybe I would start a blog pretending to be my cat . . . wouldn't that be cute? And I am the female Peter Pan. Jealous or what?

And as for the negative part . . . I prefer to think of it as sarcastic wit . . .

And again, no one is forcing anyone to read this, or anything else on the internet. As fun as writing flaming comments on people's blogs must be, there must be something better you could do with your time. I mean, isn't that what you want to point out to me? So go do it.

Because writing hateful comments probably isn't going to change my behavior (except for writing this post). It might intensify the negativity you were so concerned with for a bit. As long as we're all so happy to spread it around.

Again . . . you really don't have to read it. I can't make you.

so you didn't have to share

I was told tonight that my blog has become boring . . . perhaps it is the editing, maybe it's that my life is not all that exciting . . . don't know. Do know that being told that your posts suck . . . well, it kinda sucks.

My brain is now the consistency of marshmellow and I still have to grade ninety English Nine Odyssey tests (say that five times fast), which may not happen tonight. I'm sure they'll get over it. Oh, and if I have one more meeting I may just scream.

So tomorrow I'm going to a concert that one of my students is playing . . . at the Roseville theater. Evidently, his band is awesome. I so hope that they play at, like, 10 pm so I can fit in a nap AND I hope my feet don't stick to the floor at this place. They are headlining, so the later in the evening and Emily napping is looking good. Saturday is Nine Inch Nails . . . and I'd better be in the old people section. I want no jostling.

Z's birthday is Sunday. A whole eight going on 28, it seems. I will take him to The Corpse Bride, but may have to take my mother also. I don't know if Morna will fully appreciate Tim Burton but at least it will be a family event.

Currently listening to old "The The". So awesome, that Matthew Johnson.

Just a little clue

I am slowing realizing that anonymous posts kinda suck . . . don't get me wrong, I love that people are commenting. For gosh sake, don't stop commenting . . . in fact, comment more because it makes me think that someone might be reading this and that is so much more comforting than talking to air. (I will talk to air though . . . those of you who know me realize this)

But the last two comments posted have been from people I know (or that I assume I know) (who else knows about the lobsters in the yearbook room?) . . . but they don't have blogger accounts. So give me a hint or something. You could always sign it. Princess just gives me a call after she comments (except now . . . she won't be speaking to me now because I mentioned her). So yeah, just a little clue . . . unless, of course, you prefer to remain anonymous.