I Still Think Knee-High Go-Go Boots Are Hella Sexy.
Posted on August 20th, 2024 in braindump
There are so many things about the internet that have been hard sells for me. Blogging? The fuck. I never kept a diary — I lived in a house with no privacy, and the idea of writing down my precious secret thoughts where anyone could find them was horrifying.
Instead I consumed the library. I chewed through the Science Fiction section (which was, at the time, just three spinner racks in the corner behind the Classic Literature section) and the entire 700.00’s the summer I turned six. My first ideas about sex were, as you’d guess, very technicolorful. Think LOGAN’S RUN meets Dali — you know, more than already. Yeah. I don’t think they let kids browse either of those shelves anymore. Shame, really.
Eventually, the kindly library marm started allowing me more than the maximum checkout for my age (four books at a time) because she realized I was reading two books a day. There’s a little plastic trophy on a shelf somewhere I earned for reading 1000 books in my second-grade school year. And that’s just the ones I tracked. None of this is to say I was a terribly clever child, mind — but I was a little info-sink. If it had words, I’d read it.
So RSS feeds? Candy. Seriously, feed aggregation is one of the greater things to come from the interwub. But when it comes to me giving back to the infostream, I stall out and start censoring myself. Who’s going to read this? I wonder. It’s not a case of wondering about the point, it’s a genuine fear based on years and years of holding all my thoughts close to my chest. If I write it down, it’s not mine anymore.
This lack causes no end of bitching from at least seven people.
But, yes. I’m crap at blogging. That’s not going to change, and since I haven’t got a cat anymore, I’m not even the demographic. But what the hell. There are, at last count, some 600 feeds on my netvibes page, so I can probably find something to talk about. We’re going to call it conversation. You don’t have to answer, mind you, but I’m going to pretend that you are.