Alive, Barely Blogging

Failure to update this blog can be blamed to any or all of the following: hellish deadlines, healthy sex life, demanding pseudofriends and inconsequential distractions like work and personal relations. And we all know that anyone who yields to blog neglect is vulnerable to a dreadful syndrome which I shall express as the classic put down review of a book: “Once I put it down, I just couldn’t pick it up!” Not that anyone would give a flying bleep except for a couple of online friends who imposed upon themselves the responsibility of blog update mafia. A week in a row without update would produce indescribable hysterics and foul oaths until I cave in and do a grudging entry.

As evident in this entry for instance.

Since I started gutting myself out for public viewing long time ago I have come to grasp that blogging is a civilized way of encouraging exhibitionism and voyeurism. Case in point is how a lot of blogs are written with the author pandering to anyone who happens to read it. Contrary to old fashioned diary-writing where entries are intended to be intimate personal conversation or a documentation of one’s excursions between infancy to mortality, today’s bloggers write to impress other bloghoppers and reduce them into a slavish fan, a blog link exchangee, or—in egotistical cases like myself—a captive, unwilling audience.

It’s incredible. Why this need to show off? What possible excuse is there for all the impertinent lengths one has to go to be liked? Why do we willingly subject ourselves with habitual posting responsibility for other people’s entertainment, diversion and occasional sense of Schadenfreude? Or are we all just inherently sad and desperate to reel people in the bleakness of our deep thoughts or the shallowness of our lives?

I look into this phenomenon with a fluctuating variance of amusement, distaste and wonder.

Then, like most everyone, shrug my shoulders and type the next irrelevant drivel. One day I hope to wake up and not care about writing yet another feeble online junk. One day I’d grow up.

Grow up into what I have no bleeping clue.