Another argument between the voices in my head

“Write something, damn you.”

“Fuck me, I’m tired.”

“Um. I don’t think you should probably say ‘fuck me’ on the internet. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. Only 9% of your readers ever identify themselves and even some of the knowns probably plunk kittens in the microwave for fun.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think that’s true at all. I have a sane and surprisingly intelligent blog community. Well, …..except for that one guy, awhile back.”

“Uh huh. That one guy.”

“And the other drive by, remember the psychotic medusa who tried to moralize me about my romantic predicament?”

“Yeah. That particular loose cannon is still circling the waters.”

“But the rest of them are great. I’d give almost all of them weapons.”

“Again, I don’t… I just might not mention that aloud where the ‘imaginative’ might read it.”

*dreamy eyed* “Laser guns…”

“Still holding out for your Star War’s posse then?”

“Someday I’ll find my Luke. My Han. My Leia….”

“Your wookiee.”

“Oh, I found my wookiee. I way found the wookiee. The wookie slot is filled.”

*winces* “Wookie slot? Ew, ew, ew.”

“You’re disgusting. I’m talking about a position being filled.”

“You’re talking about positions. And being filled. No, what you’re doing is whooping a welcome to every pervert and murderist on wordpress.com.”

“Wookiee’s are not serial-killer bait. They’re serial killer detractors.”

“Just tell me this: How would you know?”

*sniffs*

“How do you know what attracts a murderer?”

“How do you?”

“…Educated guess.”

“Yeah, right. Check-mate.”

“Nuh uh. That’s a draw. Go on then, discuss wookie slots to your heart’s content, but don’t come crying to me when all your quality readers immigrate to Book Slut and Dooce.com. ”

“You know, you’re a killjoy. If I could determine which part of my brain you’re located in, I’d stab it with a shrimp fork.”

“Keep talkin’ wookie slots, I’m sure one of your ‘fans’ will do that for you.”

“Don’t diss the weebles.”

*mutters* “They smell like ham.”

“Do you see this shrimp fork? Do you feel the destiny percolating off its tines?”

“Kay. Stab yourself in the scalp. See how far you get in life with that approach.”

“I’ve done pretty fucking well.”

“On a scale of one to what?”

“You’re me. You’re supposed to be a loyal fan.”

“Bollocks.”

“That’s gay.. ”

“That’s English.”

“That’s fun to say.”

“Like… ‘viola da gamba’…”

“Mmm.”

“So why didn’t you do this conversation thing with Tim instead?”

“Do you really wanna know?”

“I already do know; I’m you, after all.”

“K.”

“But they probably want to know.”

“K.”

“That was an invitation to speak up.”

“K.”

“Compelling conversationalist, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes…. sometimes it’s better to be on your own for awhile. Let stuff settle. Let old directions collapse so wildflowers can grow. That’s all. Oh, and sometimes it’s nice to show other people just what kind of pseudo-brain-fart mental crap you hafta contend with on a daily basis.”

“So they can safely migrate to Dooce.com.”

“Touché.”

Grawg

Grawg.

That is my word, but you may have it. Was I a git yesterday? Reading it over, I think I was sort of a git.  When I’m on my high horse high enough, it’s hard to see the ground down below. 

I don’t honestly expect anyone to care if I like them or not. Likely you have something better to do. To my mind it was a fascinating subject because we’re dealing with interactions based from the earliest stage on anonymity.

Being anonymous is great, but not in a creepy ‘invisible man’ kind of way. Rather, for writing- I experience a few misgivings when I start to actually get to know people and actually care what they think on a blog. It has to effect how you write. We put filters in play automatically and play to those who influence us most. That’s part of the human condition.

But here, in this place, what determines like, attraction, influence? How accurately do you think a personality is communicated through the writing voice? Today those questions are gonna be all just very rhetorical, because… Ive already tormented a kind stranger with this knowledge, and a less strange other kind. Here goes: My head hurts.

After careful consideration, I’ve decided not to be strong or stoic about this. What I would like is sympathy and a liberal dousing of babying. My noggin hurts like holy hell. I involuntarily wedged my head between my knees earlier, not because I’m limber and a show-off, but because it seemed actually to ease the pain. 

Pet me. Coddle me. Where the fuck are you putting your hands, mister?

Just kidding. 

There was a point here.. No there wasn’t, but I wanted to mention my incense at this little fact: I’m getting repeater spams! Scan reruns! I’m telling you, suleman bello already solicited me for an African Bank transaction, I remember the name!  

I remember, cus at the time I remarked to myself how that name seemed close to Saul Bellow. Whom I have not successfully read, but whom my friend Tim has read in depth, and he tells me stuff, so he’s like a walking, talking Cliff Notes. (Am I being a git again?) I think it’s an outrage, and I’m not editing this so if the post doesn’t make sense, it’s okay, but if you’re going to spam one of your head-hurty, scam-prone brethren (sistren?) for fuck sake, be original.

I actually read the first lines of those thing; there’s always the minor possibility someone’s using the old scam standard to send me a message in code.  I don’t know why, or how come they’d have the time to go to such elaborate measures if they couldn’t tell me what was wrong normally, but the possibility exists, vaguely and microscopically, all the same.

You know, the thing really kinda interesting about yesteday’s post and the responses, was that a whole lot of people wrote or commented that they felt paranoid or nervous that they might be the negative example that I illustrated.

Why do we do that? I do it too. With all the other options, and no indication of bad feelings, I still focus on the negative. It’s not right somehow. Love yourselves, little weebles! You’re all enchanting in your own right. Love yourselves, and don’t worry, but please clean up when you’re done. I can’t face Hasbro secretions today, see… I’ve got a headache.  

wrote Methuselah

It’s a blue sky day. This is kind of turning into a long weekend of celebration. What’s the etiquette on birthdays around here? It seems silly to announce you’re to be a year older, to actually hang a tile out that says ‘This much nearer to hopelessly gray and wrinkly!’ unless there’s some sort of cost/benefit equalizer in the form of presents.

I’ve often demanded presents of my readership, and have been mostly disappointed. You all seem to have a stubborn,, unrelenting non-present policy. The only somewhat successful ploy so far was that time I said ‘No dead squirrels’ and suddenly everyone had a dead squirrel to give away.

Weebles. *sigh*

So since I’ve made the deep, exhaustive sacrifice of announcing my onward march to hagdom, I think I must once more attempt to wring presents from my shiny bright but miserly weebles.

Here goes:

Even though Monday is my birthday, there is no need to give me presents, truly. If you should fill my comments section with poems, youTube messages, and moose pictures, that would be nearly as bad as dead squirrels. So don’t even think about giving me presents, my sweet, darling weebles. I am, after all, only your faithful writing servant trudging wearily and dedicatedly on to old, old, old, old age.