On online journals and all those self righteous comments (btw, where do they come from?)
Me talking to my reflection on the computer monitor as I type away another entry on one journal: “What the hell do you need an online journal for? It is called repressed exhibitionism, it’s either an undeniable manifestation of your insecurities or a clear expression of your over confidence in your imaginary little victories. In this page you become the quarterback instead of the water boy, the cheerleader instead of the mascot. You may unconsciously be writing a twisted version of the truth about who you are and your life. Inadvertently, you call Technicolor to spice up Pleasantville. Suddenly, your life has a soundtrack. Girl, you preach nothing less than blunt, almost arrogant honesty, remember that.”
So I snap back at me with this little piece of useless yet overused and quite priceless wisdom: what makes my problems a lot bigger than everyone else’s is that… they’re mine. What makes life more imbedded in memory is that it has more color in a journal than when a mind merely thrives clouded by thoughts of what other people may think.
Maybe I am right, if I wanted a record of my thoughts why could I have just not kept a small black book containing my dark little secrets… like that Spice Girls album I still keep (I am such a sucker, deep dark secret number 1 uncovered… I am definitely going down :))). Why don’t I reveal myself only to myself then just try submitting prose to the local newspaper? Additional dough if my work gets in, ya know. The black book will contain all those little cusses I throw at people I love the most when I get really pissed, which I itch to say but could only spit out the mollified version of. The black book will contain the horrid details of my being vain and self centered, things which will never fit most of who I think I am… even if I tried. The black book will contain my secret dreams of becoming famous… and sometimes of becoming a man. The black book will contain my fears, my vulnerability, and… yep, my dirty thoughts. So, I will guard it with my life like a drooling hyena.
You know… I can do that. But then, it would be tremendously boring (that’s a personal opinion, thank you very much). Greed and paranoia are always boring unless you can make movies about these themes.
So do you write online to be entertained? Honestly, I do sometimes. The best way to look at another side of your life is when you look at it without having to be psychotically attached to it. When I update, I see a webpage and a kick-ass layout (hahahaha that was a baaaaddd ugly layout joke). No I am not completely detached from it of course, these are my memories we’re talking about, they are sacred. Memories matter to me because they compose my little textbook of mistakes and ammunition. Only with the journal, I see myself in a different light- sometimes with more humor and more angst, sometimes with more grace and more spunk, sometimes with more dweebiness and more awkwardness, me in a different costume all the time. But me, nonetheless.
Does having journal friends help? I guess so, notwithstanding, the odd stories of being stalked or the queasy feeling of paranoia. (ang feeling! well, like I said if you are being true to yourself, everyone has that, look at all those people who have locked their pages "friends only")… Knowing that there is someone looking over my shoulder while I write makes me more creative about my otherwise colorless life. Knowing that someone is watching (whether I like it or not because I risked being read since I stepped into this medium) humbles me more, makes me more real, more alive.
Besides, there is a lock function, dumb a*s.
So you tell me you like it when people comment? Of course I do. Not to confirm my beliefs, I don’t think people need that at all. But then maybe, there are other sets of beliefs that I could modify, drink in, spit out or challenge. See, people commenting on your life is not my goal in keeping track of my memories and thoughts. I hate journal politics.
So what is the goal? Oh, honey, a whole bunch of different things. Living vicariously. Learning about my personal, emotional and intellectual trends. Wanting to be spanked. Reinforcing self-worth. Recording. Laughing at myself. Getting entertained. Exploring personal possibilities. A place to write some of my pieces of bull shit in.
More than anything it’s RELEASE… minus the dread of your own handwriting staring back at you or a ransom note for your diary in your little brother’s handwriting.
Does it not defeat the goal of anonymity? Oh, then sweetheart, keep off the Net. There is no point. Being a participant in a network or probably just commenting on another person’s blog, you are bound to expose yourself, maybe not straightforwardly (but people always see through). Pretending is as addictive as it is self destructive.
Online journal writing allows me to be myself, accepting all that is wrong about my thought patterns, knowing that judgment is only as strong as another letter on the keyboard and making sure that I’m grounded with an unboxed identity. To some people journals free them from being judged without having to look like an angry rebellious teenager. Or… some people are really angry rebellious teenagers, and there is nothing wrong with that.
To me it’s a reflection of how I think, plus a little bling. It’s more like talking to me… but with my hands moving all over the place and my face contorted in all possible directions. Nothing fancy, just more color.
More like how it is in real life… only you can go back 20 entries and snicker.
