Damn you, Google

it still catches me offguard when you tell me you’ve been reading this. there’s such a disconnect in my head from the telling of the story and the hearing of the story. somehow, i’ve convinced myself that when i write these words and i click update that it is disappears into this tiny hole that only a few people can reach, when really anyone can access it and many people, including my mother, do. daily.

so, your first impression of me could be my obsession with a zit or a description of a lady from her ankles down or, worse, a self-aware diatribe about how i am getting self-conscious in this medium for the umpteenth time.

and this is the electronic equivalent of me blushing.

sometimes i want to hide, because, if i actually stop to think about it, the idea of exposing myself seems so outrageous on so many levels, but i can’t. i can’t hide. i could take the site down or i could speak in code, but a couple of clever search strings later, and there i’d be, a click away from you.

maybe the trick is not to think about it. maybe the black hole theory is a good one. maybe i should just pretend that you’re not here, that i am 16, alone in my bedroom, writing to the person in my head who understands why i feel the way i do and finds all my jokes funny and doesn’t drown in my streams and rivers and oceans of consciousness.

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