the magpie will come at midday
May. 4th, 2010 10:46 pmGetting back into posting here with any degree of regularity is easier said than done. Rusty, I guess. There is also the question of what form I want this blog to take in the future - do I continue as, essentially, a diarist, or do I only post when I have Something To Say, or should I return to my blog the random-thought-receptacle function now usurped by twitter?
Decisions like these are made continuously, on the net. I didn't even think about them when I started blogging at the tender age of fifteen, aside from the occasional dilemma regarding the degree of disclosure I was comfortable with regarding incidents that involved people who might actually read this. Funnily enough I mostly settled on nothing but my love life being off-limits... not taboo but discreet. Then again, everyone I dated before read this journal (yes, both of them) while my current is a bit of a luddite. People who know him read this, though, which leaves some things firmly in the realm of TMI (or maybe it would have been like that regardless). I've always been astonishingly blase about TMI in the general sense, and equally oversensitive about it in the specific. My embarrassment squick: it functions really fucking weirdly. I feel okay about contemplating a post about my intimacy issues and how bizarre yet lovely physical contact is, but writing up a date seems wrong despite the actual events depicted being practically identical to many other occasions I have chronicled here.
Tangent. It's just that I'm twenty now, and even as I sometimes come to a total full stop epiphany about how bloody young (we all are) I am this feels like something I can and should be held accountable for now. In the standard Get Famous, Have Biography Written About You hypothetical, stuff you write when you're sixteen is stuff you can smile at and say "aw, silly tiny pastme," but stuff you write when you're twenty is much harder to divorce from your identity. This is Me, not Minime. This isn't going under Early Years.
I feel sorry for people who only got onto the internet post this Age Of Reason epoch. I've had years and I'm still only just cementing points of internet ettiquette in my habits. It must suck to realise that not only were you a douche to somebody on the internet that one time, but you were actually (nominally) a rational adult when you did it, and people expected better of you. (related reading open in my tabs right now: How to disagree, How to want to change your mind. Actually though the main thing that it has literally taken me all this time to realise is that the age-old noob-pwning heuristic of LURK MOAR compacts an essay's-worth of Sensible Things About The Internet. Someday I might write the essay.)
Tangent. I have 2000 words due Friday, another set Tuesday and yet another next Friday. I'm procrastinating. You may as well ask me anything (you can totally do that in comments, too... it's just my formspring hasn't seen use in a while :P)
Decisions like these are made continuously, on the net. I didn't even think about them when I started blogging at the tender age of fifteen, aside from the occasional dilemma regarding the degree of disclosure I was comfortable with regarding incidents that involved people who might actually read this. Funnily enough I mostly settled on nothing but my love life being off-limits... not taboo but discreet. Then again, everyone I dated before read this journal (yes, both of them) while my current is a bit of a luddite. People who know him read this, though, which leaves some things firmly in the realm of TMI (or maybe it would have been like that regardless). I've always been astonishingly blase about TMI in the general sense, and equally oversensitive about it in the specific. My embarrassment squick: it functions really fucking weirdly. I feel okay about contemplating a post about my intimacy issues and how bizarre yet lovely physical contact is, but writing up a date seems wrong despite the actual events depicted being practically identical to many other occasions I have chronicled here.
Tangent. It's just that I'm twenty now, and even as I sometimes come to a total full stop epiphany about how bloody young (we all are) I am this feels like something I can and should be held accountable for now. In the standard Get Famous, Have Biography Written About You hypothetical, stuff you write when you're sixteen is stuff you can smile at and say "aw, silly tiny pastme," but stuff you write when you're twenty is much harder to divorce from your identity. This is Me, not Minime. This isn't going under Early Years.
I feel sorry for people who only got onto the internet post this Age Of Reason epoch. I've had years and I'm still only just cementing points of internet ettiquette in my habits. It must suck to realise that not only were you a douche to somebody on the internet that one time, but you were actually (nominally) a rational adult when you did it, and people expected better of you. (related reading open in my tabs right now: How to disagree, How to want to change your mind. Actually though the main thing that it has literally taken me all this time to realise is that the age-old noob-pwning heuristic of LURK MOAR compacts an essay's-worth of Sensible Things About The Internet. Someday I might write the essay.)
Tangent. I have 2000 words due Friday, another set Tuesday and yet another next Friday. I'm procrastinating. You may as well ask me anything (you can totally do that in comments, too... it's just my formspring hasn't seen use in a while :P)
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