If my Life was a TV Show
If my life was a TV show, it would be a Reality TV show. Now, sometimes (like BULKTEMBER) it's like The Biggest Loser or any other of those edutainment shows where you are entertained while occasionally learning something about Trans Fats. However, most of the time, if my life was to be a TV show, it would be one of those concentrated self indulgent series like The Osbournes or The Simple Life where viewers would simply take interest and joy in my movements and maybe learn a lesson in the end.
I think this year has been the hardest to journal ever. Not for any personal reasons, it's just that the internet has been creeping further and further into real lives over the six years I've been journaling and all of a sudden you realize wait, wait, wait... I am like in all these social networks that are reading this right now. Back in 2001 I couldn't pay anyone to read my Summer Journal and its non-WC3 compliant HTML formatted entries. But now I can meet someone on the street, tell them my name and within half a minute they can Google me on their (fucking) phone and have access to a library of all the observations I've made since high school.
You see, internet, it's like this. You want attention, but you also want privacy. You don't want that chick you met on the dance floor to have immediate access to how many times you said “Pull My Finger” last camping trip, but you also want every second internet viewer to read and leave comments about how you maybe used bananas and rock-melon in your breakfast smoothie instead of forest berries on some random Tuesday morning. So, 2007 has seen the comeuppance of the epic battle between narcissism and insecurity. And overall I think insecurity is winning because I'm just not writing what I'm thinking on the internet as much as I could. I mean, damn it, I'm paying almost $12 US a year to own this domain, and yet all I've done recently is spool YouTube videos or at the least link to accessible viral marketing campaigns.
I believe what I'm trying to say is, come a century when I'm either dead or existing as some sort of cerebellum powered hologram in a national museum for tall, creative types I have to ask myself what did I really care about and what do I regret not publishing on the internet? Sure, there are hundreds of colleagues and classmates and ex-girlfriends and future ex-girlfriends who might see this website as a tool for manipulating me (and by that I obviously mean learning about me and threatening me with the power to get close to me). But, a journal, like almost everything in life, is not worthwhile doing half-heartedly. And if the Writers Guild of America is going to strike and the world needs more reality entertainment maybe it's time to remount the keyboard and get kinky with myself. Time to get real.
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The woman with the fake tan stepped into my office, sat across from my desk and lit a cigarette.
At least, she would, sometime in the next 20 minutes. Smelling the future has advantages, but precision isn’t one of them.