Back in 2003, The Daver, being The Daver, saw the Discman I used on the train to and from school. He felt sorry for me, my pathetic Discman and collection of badly scratched CD’s.
(don’t ever loan me a CD)
He kindly gave me this:
It was the first generation iPod, 40 gigs of swinging death in a neat, cigarette-box of a case. It was also WAY over my head. I had no idea what a “gig” was if it wasn’t a band show, and the idea of putting music in a cigarette box made me suspicious.
But I fell in love with it.
I had it until The Daver took it back for some reason or another (I’d probably scratched it or something). I replaced it with this:
They’d been out of the green iPod mini I’d wanted, so instead I got the pink one, waggling my tongue at The Daver, whose iPod was now twice the size of my sleek Mini.
Last year, I decided that it was high time for a NEW iPod; the Nano. A chorus of “what the fuck’s?” met me when I showed off my new purchase. I do, of course, have an iPhone which neatly serves as an iPod as well.
I waggled my tongue maturely at the nay-sayers and explained that it was mostly for working out. The iPhone AND the iPod Mini weighed like 97 pounds and really, I couldn’t charge the damn Mini anymore. No power cord.
I’ve used it every day since. Beaten the shit out of it. Planned to continue beating the shit out of it because, well, the first two iPods still work. They’re like magic. The Nano, I figured, would last me forever.
I pictured us running off into the sunset together, me and my Nano. That is, of course, until my crotch monkeys left it in a puddle of bubbles on Sunday, sabotaging our relationship. Possibly, my life.
Dona nobis pacem, Blue Nano.
Rest in Peace.
*cries*
*weeps*
*wails*
*flops about the house*
*mopes*
….
….
…
Oooh! I can buy a SNAP BRACELET HOLDER for the new iPod.
On second thought, maybe I’ll buy my kids a pony instead of disowning them.
The first time I got a blog troll, I ate a celebratory cupcake and washed it down with a tall Diet Coke on the rocks. It was probably, in hindsight, a spammer (just like my first comments , which I think I framed somewhere, were) but I didn’t care. I’d made it! Someone, somewhere hated me!
Then, I got someone who copied bits out of my blog posts. Actual bits of my posts removed and pasted onto hers, like it was no big deal. Someone else, a watchdog, alerted me. My daughter had just been born ill and I wasn’t about to deal with it right then. Talk about bigger fish to fry. I like to think I would have fist-pumped, though, and perhaps celebrated with a tasty bowl of edamame or a wee Uncrustables.
Later yet came the loon who created several blogs composed of entirely stolen posts filched neatly from other bloggers, myself included, who I did fight. Google claims they shut her down, but I don’t care to check because I don’t want to drive her traffic up. I still have, somewhere on my desktop, screenshots of all of your comments on her blog, just because they were so full of the awesome, by the way.
You don’t fuck with the Pranksters.
Since that first Internet Mole Person (troll), I’ve gotten a handful of others.
Generally, they make me laugh.
There are weeks when they do not.
Like anyone, I’m a person, and I have bad days, and bad weeks, and sometimes I say and do the wrong things. In fact, if I had to describe my blog, I’d say something like, “THIS is where I bow to the alter of my wrongness.” I don’t have a publicist or an adviser to tell me not to do something because, uh, why?
This week, I’ve gotten a couple of nasty-grams that hurt my feelers. I know we’re “supposed” to pretend like it doesn’t matter; like we don’t care, like it doesn’t hurt our feelers when people call us names or insult us, but it does. Of course it does.
Like it or not, this is my life.
Certainly, it’s my steaming pile of guts spilled here, my wrongness on display, and my inconsistencies on the table to be judged and if I don’t like it, I can absolutely pack up shop and go somewhere else. That’s the answer, right? To delete my blog in a stompy flourish? Go back to being Becky, In Real Life? That’s how to handle hurt feelers?
Not so much. At least, not for me.
Blogging is an act of bravery. When you put yourself out there, especially waaay out there, you stand a very real chance to be very hurt or very disgusted by human nature. The farther you stick your neck out, the worse the inevitable hurt will be.
What I think is worse than anything are the people who get you entirely wrong. Because you’re left standing there stuttering, “but, but, BUT, that’s not what I meant AT ALL.”
These are the sort that make me sort of question myself in a way that I seldom do (perhaps I should): Did I say it wrong? WAS I wrong?
And most importantly: why the hell do I do this at all? I see that typed out here, on my screen and it looks like I’m being all 15-years old and dramatical feet-stamp *woe is me, OH NOES* and I’m (for once) not.
I mean that genuinely: why do I do this? Why do ANY of us bother?
It’s certainly not for the billions of dollars in my bank account that still haven’t been deposited, nor is it for the notoriety and free swag, or to be able to tell someone that “I blog, and it’s really, really cool.” Because I swear, if I told someone that, they’d be all, “um, huh? Did you just insult me?”
No. It’s not for that. It’s because it all matters. Every word I write matters. To me. These words are what define me, what make up my life, and what bring me joy. Whether or not someone else finds them and finds joy in them too is inconsequential because it brings me joy. I write because I love to. I write because that is what I do. I write because it matters.
Everything we do. It all matters.
My Dad: “We found a new place to park that’s much closer to the front of McCormick Place.”
Me: (groans)
My Dad: “It’s all street parking. No meters!”
Me: (groans)
My Dad: “Paying for parking is bullshit!”
Me: (groans)
My Dad: “It’s also much, much closer to the entrance! NO WALKING!”
Me: (groans)
My Dad: “The best part?”
Me: “…”
My Dad: “It’s in front of Cabrini Green.”
Me: “…”
Me: “The housing project? From Candyman? I almost got killed there once.”
My Dad: “I hope you’re ready to do some jogging!”
Me: “Uh.”
My Dad: “You know how I hate paying for parking, Rebecca!”
Me: “I didn’t bring a semi-automatic weapon, Dad.”
My Dad: “Well, you probably won’t get mugged. It’s day time!”
Me: “…”
Me: “I’ll buy parking today, huh? MY TREAT.”
My Dad: “It’s the PRINCIPLE, Rebecca.”
Me: “Well, how about this? I’ll drop you off in front of Cabrini Green and you can walk! That way, you feel like you got free parking!”
My Dad: “Well, if you’re paying…”
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