I want to write again. I don’t know if I have the momentum.
I dearly love people I have met on Twitter, and that’s what occupies most of any “creative”-type time I spend online.
But all that stuff funnels straight down the garbage chute. I thought blogs were ephemeral, but Twitter is ephemeral on ephemeroids.
And, believe it or not, I *do* get tired of desperately trying to please people, something I inevitably fall into when tweeting. Okay, I don’t get tired so much as wearied by it. (P.S. LOVE ME. LOVE MEEEEEEEEEE!) I get my feelings hurt more than I care to admit. Hm. Okay, I just admitted it. Okay, so now, I get my feelings hurt as much as I care to admit. Exactly equivalent to that.
This blog has always been nice for me. And it’s still here, even though I rarely tend to it. It’s a robot pet that just needs its batteries swapped when I want to play.
Here, another metaphor. My blog is an island. It’s mine. You can comment on my island, but I can shoot your comment with a fucking gun. There, I just killed your fucking comment. How does it feel, comment-leaver? Oh, I wouldn’t do that. But I like having SPACE here, on the Interwebs. I even like having a little CONTROL.
On Twitter I’m just an account name and an avatar. My personality does percolate through, but I’m a dot bouncing around in something larger, anonymous and potentially unfriendly.
Hey, I *like* typing things that are longer than 140 characters. I like the idea of wasting page real estate.
boggedy boggedy boggedy boggedy boggedy boggedy!
That felt good. So good.
I like existing in space and time. I like leaving a trail. I like blogging.
There’s nothing expected of me here, I know. I could post this and never say another word. But that’s so sad. I want to have a pulse at this blog.
What am I gonna write about? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll make up a robot sister. Maybe I’ll write about my goddamned feelings. But I’d like to have a pulse, to not be confused with something dead.
beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep, etc.