**I am not writing about the inauguration today. I’m thinking everyone else has that covered.

I ran across a blog somewhere where someone was accusing someone else of starting rumors just to try to attain e-fame. You know, doing something so loudly, so sluttily, so whateverily that one becomes famous in analog simply by becoming famous in digital. E-fame. Perez Hilton. Tila Tequila. Chris Crocker.

I didn’t know how to feel about this…my life, being lived from The Fortress Of Solitude, is becoming more and more about everyone having the same volume level. The internet is a wonderful equalizer: real life homies have exactly the same volume level as God. (No really. “HolyGod” has a twitter account, which amuses me to no end.) So what happens when you think you’re talking to one person and it turns out that the person is someone else entirely?

1. You get a little grossed out.
2. You decide whether the words you’ve typed to each other still have value.
3. You decide whether to delete that person from your world.
4. You keep a safe distance.

The more I think about the e-fame concept, the more I’m glad that I’m nobody. I’ve never been so glad to be nobody in my life. Maybe I’ve just never really thought about it. If given the choice, I don’t think I’d want to be Tila Tequila. She came out of nowhere, got famous, and she’ll probably disappear just as quickly as she came here. When that fame is over and she’s synonymous with “skank,” she’ll still have to walk around being Tila Tequila. What a horrible fate.

I’m glad that I can go to Kroger with no makeup on and nobody cares. I’m glad that I am apparently invisible to cops because I drive the most popular car on Earth. Most of the time, I’m glad that dudes don’t see me (if you meet enough dudes, the thrill wears off). I’m glad that there’s never a shortage of people who will forget my name and make me feel like crap, because nobody ever got anywhere being told that they’re perfect all the time. Perfection is not a character-builder, and the only goal left after achieving perfection is to keep being perfect, which is probably really tiring. I’m glad that I’ve never been blindingly hot because hotness goes away and, frankly, no matter how pretty you are, there’s always someone prettier than you. But nobody can ever out-amy me (except me, and if I ever meet me in a dark alley, it is SO ON). I’m never going to wake up one day and feel like my worth as a human is gone because I have gray hair.

I have never been the girl that guys pick up just to have sex with. A few unfortunate souls have tried, at which point I have to point out that they missed the giant red neon sign over my head that flashes “virgin! virgin!” I’m the kind of woman that men marry, not the kind they pick up in bars. Always have been. Much as it irks me when a guy forgets my name or picks the girl with the bigger boobs over me, I know that he’s just saving me drama.

There are a lot of ways in which I can point at someone and say “I am SO much bigger than you,” but there are still a lot of ways that I’m smaller. I have the loudest fingers ever, but I’m still nobody. It affords me a level of freedom and sanity. When I google my name (I’ve only done it, like, 3 times), I know what’s going to come up. Nobody trolls my LiveJournal to post mean anonymous comments. Nobody gives a damn who I’m dating, where I’m living, or what I’m doing…except those of you who are reading this. In the blogosphere, I don’t win on quantity. I win on quality (you guys).