I keep debating about posting this at all… Kind of a meandery meaningless ramble through my somewhat incoherent thoughts about blogging.
Recently, I got a few comments on my blog that got me thinking about the whole thing.
I’ve gotten worse comments, honestly. Usually I delete the ones from people who get to my site by looking up “XXX Anime” and write “fuk you” forty times because they’re disappointed that I’m talking about Vin Diesel instead of anime chicks who make it with tentacled monsters. Or the pointlessly rude and badly misspelled comment I got once while complaining about my pregnancy that said “u wil b fat adn unhappy the resp of ur life and so wil ur kid!”
Pointless complaints from illiterate people are worth deleting.
I also routinely delete any blog spam that comes in – people selling p.enis aids or offering cheap prescription drugs or any of that other nonsense. I don’t want to read it in my email, I don’t want to see it on web sites and I certainly don’t want anyone to waste their hard earned money (or even their easily earned money!) on crap they saw on my website.
These comments I went ahead and kept while I debated writing this entry.
I also kept them because I found my sense of the belief strongly tested. Do I really believe two random people found the same old blog entry less then three minutes apart and both of them found the story to be completely pointless? (I might add neither of them had the courtesy to leave an email address or a link to track back to them.) On the other hand, do I really believe that someone hated the entry so much they felt it was necessary to pretend to be two people so that them telling me I sucked was doubly enforced?
There’s no way to know, I suppose, unless they see this entry and decide to tell me in their terribly bad spelling and witless prose that certainly, they are two seperate people and of course it was coincidence that they both found my blog on the same day and of course I’m an idiot. (Don’t bother. I already know I’m an idiot. You don’t need to tell me.)
Of course, reading back over the entry, I tried to remember the point I was attempting to make by writing it in the first place. And what I was trying to get at was my own muzziheadedness combined with a brain that frequently refuses to shut up and let me sleep. I saw the two pairs of shoes and I wondered about the two pairs of shoes. Eventually, unable to sleep despite being tired and sick myself, I had to get up and investigate exactly where my husband was and if he had gone to work, what on earth was he wearing on his feet?
I wondered if I had any business continuing to blog when I was obviously incapable to conveying these feelings of otherworldliness that comes from the disconnected ponderings of a mind still cottoned by sleep. I already know that I don’t write nearly as well as I’d like to, that I am constantly plagued by the knowledge that I will never be able to carry accurately to paper the myriad dreamworlds that inhabit my mind so clearly that it is often a real pang to come back to this dreary, so-called real world. I spend a lot of time reading and feeling that guilty ache of jealousy knowing that I will never write half as well as so many other people.
And my life is not exciting. As a matter of fact, it’s often damn boring. I’m a stay-at-home mom married to a type-A professional. I don’t own a sex shop so that I can have enormously funny anecdotes with which to entertain readers. I don’t even have a regular job about which to post frustrated entries of corporate stupidity. I’m not experiencing any major difficulties that keep people tied to my journal for updates.
Tiny people. With tiny problems. In a great wide open world.
There are thousands, if not tens of thousands, of journals and blogs and musings out there on the web. People who dream, people who do, people who live, people who love. People who can make you laugh and people who can make you cry. Train wreck lives that you can’t stop reading despite knowing that nothing good is ever going to come of what they’re doing. Triumphs of the human spirit. Miracles. People with ordinary boring lives who find clever ways of telling you about it. People who do things you wish you could, people who do things you never would.
I won’t twist your arm to read my blog. And I won’t pretend not to be slightly hurt at being called an idiot.
This is my life. You don’t have to share it with me.
Unless you want to.