Scylla recently made a comment in the blog about how she showed my blog to her daughter and hoped that it was ok with me. The thought keeps coming back, making me wonder if I really needed to say something out loud. Just in case…I will.
This ain’t private.**
Never has been.
Never will be.
In fact, if I could publish this drivel and sell it in Borders and have anybody give half a rat’s ass, I would do it in a heartbeat.
My sister one had a boyfriend who addressed me as Amy The Cynic. The title, even at age 15 or so, was not undeserved. I will never forget the feeling of shock I had back in 1999 when I realized that people were finding my terribly-designed site and reading the poetry. “There’s no porn here! Why are people looking at this? What the fuck?” That first site was an experiment, and the internet surprised me. I was so surprised, I saw potential and became a web designer. Go fig.
This is an extension of the insane amount of letter-writing I did in school. I loved to type. That whole element of having words go from your head to the page so quickly…over time, without having to think about where you’re reaching. Love it. Pen pals, friends in other cities, total strangers…the only difference here is that I can show you guys links, pictures, videos, and all kinds of other fun crap. It’s like a letter or a book on steroids. It may even be better than a book. If I sold this in Borders or if I wrote for a magazine, I would have to have a filter. Here, I can do this:
fuck fuck fuck fuck Oprah worships Satan fuck fuck fuck fuck
and no one cares. Granted, no one cares because my circulation is so small. I have freedom because I’m nobody. I can tell you everything about me because you don’t care. (Except those of you who know me in real life which, strangely, isn’t all of you.) The irony of that is delicious, but the truth is that I’d probably be sitting here typing even if you weren’t here. Don’t get me wrong, if you’re reading, I’m more than happy to have you. Part of the fun is that you guys sometimes join in. Kumbayah.
I don’t mind full disclosure. Maybe I just don’t care what you think about me. Maybe I’m naively thinking that, if you have full-disclosure, I (and everyone else) will start to make more sense. Maybe the total lack of a filter that I have in real life just spills out here, too. As much bile as may spew forth from my fingers at times, there’s always the element of “don’t say anything you wouldn’t say to this person’s face.” It just happens that there aren’t too many things I wouldn’t say to people’s faces. Ah, spoken like someone who’s never had her ass kicked.
I’m about to up the ante on you with some experiments that may or may not work out. Who knows if anyone will find any of it interesting. Then again, I didn’t expect anyone to be reading that poetry nine years ago, either. Congratulations, internet. You’ve surprised The Cynic.
**With the exception of the odd “friends only” LiveJournal post, which I don’t employ very often.