Then I berate myself for not letting you see enough. I’m only able to render a trivial and irrelevant part of myself. I don’t have the skill to remove the narcissistic pettiness from my posts. I try to conceal it in jokey satire. I’m not spiteful, but I am a judgmental snob. The character that I portray on my blog is not sympathetic. I know this. And still, I keep writing posts that isolate me. There is a malicious part of me that needs to speak.
I pretend to worry that my neurotic quirks and failings aren’t significant (or deranged) enough to capture your interest. I'm anxious that you will abandon me. But my secret fear is intimacy. I don't want you to see me naked.
I know addiction is not a joke. Maybe I have come unhinged. Believe me, I used to be PC. I was sensitive.
So, I didn’t intend to use the Addiction word casually. It's so wrong how addiction has become part of our parlance. It's in our lexicon. Along with stalking and codependent and allergies.
I confess I got a bit lazy with my writing. I was under pressure to meet my deadline.
Besides, all of this neurotic psycho-babble is just the by-product of living in the age of anxiety. Words don’t really mean anything.
If I say I’m addicted to coffee, I mean that I like coffee. A LOT. I want to drink coffee at home, and I want to go out to cafes and drink coffee. I want to drink coffee with other people, and I want to drink coffee alone. I start to panic if there isn’t much coffee left in the house. And if Adam drinks the last of the coffee, I hit rock bottom. Because if I don’t have a coffee, I have what my therapist calls mood swings. (What does she know?) Sometimes I get a headache. By the way, this is NOT withdrawal.
I DENY that I have a problem. Shut up. I can quit coffee any time.
And when I say I'm addicted to Twitter, I mean that I like Twitter. I want to tweet when I’m at home, and I want to tweet when I go out. I want to tweet when I'm with other people, and I want to tweet when I'm alone. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I want to go on Twitter. I kind of lose it if I'm out and my phone battery dies, and I can’t tweet.
And the relationships! I like to connect with strangers on Twitter. I get a little high when they @ me (even more so if they are "big" on Twitter). At first, one @ was enough, but now I need more and more @’s.
Don't worry about me though. I don’t have a problem. I’m just having Conversations. About Important Things. With my friends, the people of Twitter. They are too real people. And I want to be connected with them in real time. ALL THE TIME.
Because I like to express my "twitty" thoughts in 140 characters. And I'm providing a service to the people of Twitter. I'm a content provider. Have a look at what I've shared with the people of Twitter:
You get the idea. I'd like to write more here, but I must go. Twitter needs me.
IN JULI’S HEAD: They have Bom Bons! Cardamom White Chocolates! Chilli Mochachinos!
WHAT JULI REALLY SAYS: [breezily, to BARISTA] I read about your cafe on Twitter.
BARISTA: [surprised] Really?
JULI: [modestly] Yeah. I’m kind of addicted to Twitter.
BARISTA: I don’t Twitter. I just, you know, e-mail.
JULI: You should get a Twitter account. Lots of businesses use Twitter!
BARISTA: So, would you tell people on Twitter, if they mention the cafe, and “twit” or “tweet”, they can get a free coffee?
IN JULI’S HEAD: I’m not going to sell out for four bucks.
WHAT JULI REALLY SAYS: [reluctantly] Uh, yeah. Sure. OK.
My Chilli Mochachino was very nice.
Edited to add. Health warning: Coffee and Twitter are highly addictive. When coffee and Twitter are used together, you can be offensive to others.
(Have you seen my Donate button? It’s over in my sidebar. With all that other rubbish. I know, I know. I should tidy up around here. But I kind of like it this way. You know what they say about a messy house.)
It’s OK to pay the writer. I accept payment by the word, by the post, or you can buy the rights to my book.
But, just to be clear, I’m not planning to put up a pay wall. The Internet should be free. By free, I mean accessible to most people. Like a library, or a state university. Power to the people!
(Except the stupid people.)
These silly, populist sentiments have prevented me from getting rich. As in, "I don't want to work for a hamburger chain. I'm a vegetarian!" And, "I don't want to work for this investment firm. Because Enron and Monsanto are evil!"
(Look for more thoughts on this topic in my upcoming series: When will I outgrow my stupid, childish ideals, and begin to function as an adult? Because, if I don’t grow up soon, my retirement and Five’s inheritance look very grim indeed. Maybe I can just keep hoping for a deus ex machina.)
I’m clinging—still—to my belief in a powerful grassroots movement. As if individual people can influence corporations by refusing to buy their products. Ha!
For example, I went out of my way not to use iTunes. And iTunes still got me in the end. Way to go, iTunes. (By the way, I wasn’t downloading music illegally. I have ethics. I was making a stand! And I really showed iTunes, didn’t I? Yeah!)
In the U.S. corporations now have the same rights as individuals. If the inverse is true, individuals also have the same rights as corporations. Feel free to think of me as a corporation. Buy shares of Wellington Road.
I will pay to view websites when it goes that way. The New York Times and Facebook will get me. And your blog will get me too. I am growing up.
I realize that Metablog Week was last week. (See, I'm on top of things!)
Metablogging is blogging about blogging. Sometimes, metablogging seems boring or pretentious. (Which is why I metablog so often.) Here are a few of my recent posts on metablogging:
- In which our heroine returns from an absence forced on her by the demands of Real Life and is reunited with her beloved blog on the Internet.
- Where am I going with this blog?
- It’s where I am.
- Looks matter.
- I need some street cred.
You might think that July Fourth would be a lonely day for an American expat living in New Zealand. It was Monday, and everyone was at work. There were no fireworks, no parades, and it was too cold for a barbeque. (Well, it was too cold for me. I need to harden up.)
No one in the village wished me a Happy Fourth. We had no Fourth of July plans. There were no fireworks left over from Guy Fawkes Day last year. (This was poor planning on our part. Actually, there were a few sparklers. But nobody was enthusiastic about waving them about in the cold.) No neighbours had loud parties. It was just another day. And I didn’t mind. (Very much.)