inflammatory writ

What’s this blogging thing about, anyway?

My involvement with the vile word has been going on for about a year. I swore I was going to be a responsible, respectful, and most of all, discreet blogger. Oh, how I hated the oversharingness of most blogs. My blog was going to be about politics, and food, and food politics, and maybe The New Yorker. And maybe an outfit now and then. Just some frosting to make the whole wheat muffin go down a little easier.

I pretty much broke all those rules in the first month. In the past year I’ve told all my secrets to the internet, used more expletives than I thought humanly possible, and bitched like it was a full time job. I didn’t know I was annoyed so often until I got this handy way to catalogue my irritation at the world.

I can’t reread most of the blog posts. It truly hurts my heart to read my lashing out, all the vitriol and bile, especially in the past few weeks. It has been pointed out that it’s probably not the best way to represent myself to the world. It scares my good friends and makes them worry about me and completely turns off everyone else. But here’s the thing: no one told me how good it would feel. It’s like when you come home and immediately take off all your pretty clothes and put on your pajamas at 8 PM. Have you ever tried letting it all hang out, all over the internet? No shame, no censors. When I’m not worried about my clients and potential clients reading it, it feels so amazing. What if we didn’t have to keep our shame and hatred a secret? Has the world split open yet? Because I am really telling the truth here.

The charge leveled against bloggers is usually that they are, in J.D. Salinger’s slightly-out-of-context words, “pedants and conceited little tearer-downers.” Hating on the world without contributing anything of value. Writing about useless personal drivel.

The other side of that is that new media critics like bloggers are outside of the traditional media/capitalist systems and so see their flaws more clearly (the “we’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore” mentality), and that useless personal drivel is sometimes actually the meaning of life.

And, as all our favorite indie musicians know, there is such power in whispering your darkest secrets into the microphone. Dispersing all the horror by spreading around, a little bit to everyone in the world with internet access, pushes it right out of you in the most wonderful way.

This blogging business is a fine line, and I’m trying to walk it mindfully. I know it makes people uncomfortable and sometimes it’s unpleasant, but that’s what I love about it: it’s human. Have you noticed how hard it is to be a human being lately?

It’s not going to be unrelenting fuck yous forever on this old blog, though. I have plans. A recipe for miso, New Yorker stats, cooking tidbits, summertime. I have some complaints about Bust magazine that need a public airing, and there might be a fuck you-laden post about Vincent Gallo coming soon (thanks to Kevin for that one), but there are so many good things in the world, I guess I should stop writing about things like how I’ll be so free when my dad dies and give a little more love to…well, love.

Eew, gross. Well, maybe productivity – a word that fills me with all the gooey happiness that sappy love songs are supposed to. My dearest little blog, happy birthday – here’s to productivity and honesty and humanity.

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