You Hate Me, You All Hate Me--I Know You Do

Bloggers really are like parasites. They're like computer viruses. Rats, diseases, vampires, anything you can think of that latches onto another source of life, feeds on it, and then leaves it drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness as it wheezes and coughs, bleeding on the floor.

Authors of blogs have good intentions--or understandable ones at the very least. A great majority of them are girls between the age of 13 and 17 who say they have a passion for writing, when in reality they only have a passion for saying they have a passion for writing. On their profile you will find their list of interests, which will include the following items: "fashion," "reading my Bible," and "Facebook." Most of these girls have seen the movie Julie and Julia and are under the impression that they are the next Julie Powell. None of them are, of course. They will grow up to become schoolteachers, stay-at-home moms, and orthodontist's assistants, and altogether uninteresting people. Some will still write in a journal every few weeks or so, but their diary entries will open with the same sentence every time: "Can't believe it's been so long since I've written. Anyway...James just got home from soccer practice and I have to drive Ashley to ballet in less than an hour, so this will have to be a short entry..."

A category of bloggers exists that is nearly identical to the aforementioned one, but can be distinguished by the fact that all of their posts are "motivational." On the blogspots of these female teenage writers you'll find dozens of posts with around three or four motivational pictures with little motivational sayings on them such as this one, which the blogger spent a grand total of fourteen seconds searching for on Google:




They'll then post a short poem typically seven lines or so in length, usually just one stanza, about either family troubles, a boy, or nature. It will often go something like this:

Why did you have to leave me
That one night under the moonlight
I'm sorry for the things I said
You know I need you and can't live without you
Come back to me and let's just
Live together forever under the stars

The poem always seems to be referring to a certain "you." I always want to shout to these bloggers, WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?! I have never taken a walk with you on a beach at sunset. I have never wiped the tears from your eyes on the day your cat died. I have never taken you to your favourite coffee shop and then broken up with you. My name is Christopher. Christopher. I don't even know who you are. Why am I here? I'm hungry.

There are infinite more categories of bloggers. In addition to the teenage girls who think they are artistic geniuses, there are the iron-willed autism moms and cancer moms, movie-review bloggers who post about three times and then stop writing entirely, the political junkies who somehow never seem to get tired of arguing, the supposed family blogs which really only the mother writes on, the anorexic or self-mutilating teenage girls who are desperately seeking attention and support from total strangers, and then there's also a category of men anywhere from their late teens to early fifties who are somehow under the impression that they are hilarious. They often write very long posts with absolutely no pictures or links to good songs, and their sense of humour is so dry that you'll chap your lips trying to swallow it.

FOLLOWERS. What a strange thing this has become. Why do I bristle with pride every time I see that another blood-sucking blogger has just made the decision to "follow" my blog? And why do I feel especially delighted when that same faceless blogger posts a comment like,

"hey cool blog you got here. follow me?"

They all want the same thing. For you to open your mouth wide enough so that they can stick their arm down it and fish around for a while until they find what they need. They follow your blog knowing that you will follow them back--that much is obvious. But they will not stop there. They will track down every person who has ever commented on your blog and do the exact same to them. Soon they're running a blogger monoply, with connections everywhere and hundreds of followers at their mercy for them to feast on.

And commenting--that's another thing. If I was Holden Caulfield, I'd say it was phony. Since I'm not Holden Caulfield, I'll still say it's phony, because that's a word I like to use--mostly because I think it'd be cool to be Holden Caulfield.

How many of you, show of hands, actually read the posts you comment on? A great many of you probably don't. You skim them. Skim skim skim skim skim skim skim SKIM!!! Even right now you're skimming this post. If there are any of you who I didn't offend with this controversial blogger bloggy blog post, what are your comments going to be like?

"i agreeeeee about bloggers being parasites. who's holden caulfield? lol. follow me?"

I'm remembering that stunningly steamy scene from Almost Famous where William is in a hotel room full of beautiful, bored, and totally stoned girls looking for a good time. They march into the bathroom, chanting that they're planning to "deflower" William. They drag him out and toss him onto the bed, tug off his clothes, and dance around him, pulling off their shirts and skirts as they chant.

Then the next morning they wake up to the phone call from Rolling Stone magazine, and the dialogue goes something like this,

Stoned and half-naked girl #1: "Just think. In any other city in the world, you would still be a virgin."

Stoned and half-naked girl #2: "Coffee. I think I want some coffee."

Stoned and half-naked girl #3: "Yeah, coffee. William, would you get the coffee? And on your way down, would you get the laundry?"

William: "The laundry? You want me to get the laundry?! What am I to you? Answer me now. WHAT AM I TO YOU?"

The next scene flashes to him in the hall with the laundry bag over his shoulder.

But that's what I feel like I should be asking now. What am I to you people? If I stop commenting on your blogs, would you all desert me?

Hm...what was I going to say next? Something about bloggers being parasites or something. Have I said that already? I don't know. Bloggers are vampires and parasites--hear me? They are. It's true.

I'm sleepy.

I would wish all of you a Happy Ash Wednesday, but I guess it's not really a very happy occasion, is it? I have the ashen cross on my forehead. During the service, when the priest put the ashes on my forehead and said, "From dust you came, to dust you shall return," I started crying, because I don't want to turn into dust.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy