I wish this blog were still about the Internet

November 12, 2016

The blonde one shoots me a look. A “fuck you” look.

“If you know so much about blogging and the internet how come I have more followers than you?”

Her words have broken me. How did I not realize it before?  She is right. Her flawless logic has shattered the glass bubble I have evidently been living in and injected itself into my eye-veins.

I am shamed by my ignorance.

How could I have placed so much value on my opinion? After all, what right do I have to comment on blogging and the internet if I don’t have many followers?
My life is a lie. My thoughts are a lie. I am a lie.

With a morose melancholy I diligently dial my boss’ number. I must forgo the niceties for I am a sham and must be punished by divine retribution.  As a sorry Flagellate i flagellate,
“Disregard my education fine sir, “I say to him, “for it is a sham as is my being and i must depart from my untruths as i must depart from your employ. My knowledge of SEO copywriting is as superfluous as it perfect, although admittedly i can hardly be blamed for that. No, however satisfactory my work for you it must be deemed null and void by way of my own personal failure.”

I turn back to the blonde one. “I took a vow.” I tell her, “I vowed to myself i would be the very best blogger on Earth with no leeway and you have bested me effortlessly in my quest.  As per the terms of my contract with the International Internet Parliament I must now give you a lock of my hair and a signed certificate of superiority.”
This i do willingly and with the grace and humbleness of one thousand Saints.

 


The return of the good thief

May 17, 2016

The City stank.

And I: The Writer. Pursuing freedom in data streams that fell through my hands like sand.

I scowled bitterly at the desolate wasteland that was my corner of the Blogosphere.  There was nothing to love here but remnants of past failures. Thoughts thought long ago, and opinions once held, let go.

Yet I returned anyway, altered by time. And like a King returning to his kingdom after war I found it grey and decaying, the soul of it having been gone for too long.

There was loss there, in words gone unread. The pages made me uncomfortable; a candid photograph of a moment that should have been let slip away, but instead remained lingering for too long on this Earth. But I do not want to be the one to let it go.

Because I was good once. Once, I was good. I had no direction and I stank of opportunity and optimism but I was good, in my own way.

Often, I would take words that didn’t yet belong to me. I would think thoughts that didn’t yet belong to me. I fear I used them up too early.

I have been stolen from, but I have returned to seek my fortune.

Now, it will not be given up so easily.

 


Off the record: Weakness

May 1, 2013

I had just wanted to get a coffee.

“Cappuccino,” I tell the barista, “two sugars.”  What can I say, I have a sweet tooth.

A brisk autumn wind blows straight through the tiny Melbournian laneway, rustling my fuzzy mustard cardigan.  A cloud moves to cover the Sun and my world is thrown into darkness. A stern warning of things to come.

“Hey, ” my barista shoots me a confused look then all at once I see comprehension fall over him. I know what’s coming. “You’re that chick that wrote that story, aren’t you?”

I nod subtly and try to fade into the background, hoping nobody around noticed, hoping he got the hint.

“Oh, man!” He did not get the hint. “That was so awful! I mean no offence but that was really bad.”  He throws his head back and laughs. I just ‘mmm’ in agreement.
“What did that guy say, ah it was so funny I -saved the article-”  Please no. I begin to whimper. My barista does not notice and begins to quote loudly from an article he pulls from the grasp of a fridge magnet.

” ‘Ms Hamilton’s deeply indulgent writing is as weak as her plot with all sense of meaning lost in poorly executed melodrama-‘”

Each word hurls me deeper into the black chasm that threatens to consume my artist’s soul. A blush of red-hot shame makes its way to my face and I want to flee crying with embarrassment except I can’t because I’ve already paid for my coffee.

“‘…wholly forgettable,'” My barista continues, “‘ I was left cringing for days. Such ineptitude is a rare thing!'”

“Thanks.” I say.

How long does it take to make a fucking cappuccino anyway.

On my way to the train station it begins to rain. I stop to weep.

“Mummy mummy, look, there’s that lady that wrote that terrible story that one time!”
“Don’t look at her Charlie, she belongs to the devil now.”

How did it get to this point? I turn my head up to God, imploring him, asking him, ‘Why God? Why would you give me the desire and growing ability if I am to be punished eternally for an dreadful story I wrote when I was nineteen?’

Then a bird shits on my face.


Rage machine

November 8, 2012

You need to take a good look at yourself and ask ‘is it ever okay to contribute to the anonymous rage machine?’ Even if you’re stressed, is that any excuse for sending people anonymous messages over Tumblr?

Okay EVEN if their blog is dedicated to ‘Koala Bears’ and EVEN if they have tagged every image ‘Koala Bear’ and EVEN if they have used the phrase “that’s what we call them in Western Culture” to justify themselves and EVEN after all this they continue to use the phrase ‘Koala Bear’, does sending them an aggressive anonymous message change anything? No. Sure, it may make you feel better but also guilty because you don’t know that person. What if they had been incredibly insecure and you just set their self-confidence back ten years? You just don’t know. It could be the blog of your cousin that lives in Chicago for all you know and you’ve just set your aunt back a few grand because now she has to pay for counselling. You have just caused permanent psychological damage to your cousin. Way to go, dick.

So before you post, think. In the words of Howell Jenkins,

“Control yourself. You’re victimising us all. “


Ten: 2004 (Or, Confusion, despair)

October 24, 2012

 

I need to go back in time and kill my 13-year-old self.  It is the only way…

They say once something is on the Internet it’s there forever.  She’ll always exist, at least the memory of her. Comments here and there on sites people have long forgotten, petitions, a link to everyone who has downloaded a particular song…

I’ll never be rid of her forever, not while the Net still functions. But If I can’t kill the memory of her at least I can kill her. On the Internet. Because she was so lame.

It will be a risky journey full of past-self discovery; who knows what terrors my mind has blocked out over the years. I pray to God I didn’t have the ability to upload photos back then.

I’m preparing myself for the trip to 2004, which still exists on the Internet. My ultimate goal: deletion of my Piczo account.  A haven for the narcissism only present in 13-year-old girls, Piczo stands as a testament to the earlier, gaudier years of the Web. Ah, the pre-Boom-Time, I remember it well.  The Internet was smaller back then, about the size of Facebook now.

But no time for reminiscing, I have a quest!

Standing before Google’s almighty time-and-space vortex I wonder what this journey will cost me. My sanity? Self-respect? A maniacal chuckle escapes me as I’m thrown backwards through time into the wasteland that was formerly the Internet.

When I materialise my stomach turns in response to my mind trying to process a barrage of visual stimuli coming my way. The angles make me dizzy. There is no physical sound but none the less this place is screaming. Blocks of colour burn my retinas and I am assaulted by the pointy ends of crudely inserted images.Large glittery text laughs in bold Comic Sans while a slab of Helvetica complain about the void that was apparently my life.  From nowhere, music starts to play. Alone in this no-place the dated emo-pop ballad echoes into infinity; its cries of loneliness muffling my screams.

“Where are you coming from!?” I yell at the music. It does not reply.

To my left a word-art style graphic claims that life is hard.

“Please, stop!” my consciousness atomises as my soul is swept into a black hole of melodrama.

Still the music plays, like some macabre signal to a horde of ravenous howler-monkeys waiting to claim my sanity.

In my haze I knock into some fluorescent green text. Then I remember; everything here is a hyper-link. Tears roll down my face and into the information stream.
“Don’t judge me…” I whimper into the ether, imagining a billion tiny eyes laughing at my link-abuse.

I have been carried on sepia tides to a pink abyss. The omnipotent ruler of which gives me two choices, both of which lead to the same page. Over and over, reflections upon reflections, caught in a loop snowballing my confusion into a level greater than any assignable quantity.

Somewhere in the distance a gothic fairy flaps her wings, forever. I ask her to send to me a password reset, only to find it given to a phantom email address lost long ago. I know now that there is no escape for past Emily. She is stuck in 2004 just like all these poor souls rotting away who have forgotten their account passwords.

I decide to leave before the howler-monkeys catch up with me.

 

 

 


Seven: You use too many GIFs (Or, no I don’t)

October 5, 2012

An early summer heat saunters in through the wide open windows of a hip cafe. The early afternoon sun does not penetrate the shadowy laneway and bluestone bricks obscure any view of the wider city. It could be any cafe in any city in all the world; the high walls augment perceptions of time and space.

The place is empty save for two dubious characters sitting in the corner.

“How’s the family?” he asks, sliding a salt-shaker languidly across the table.
“Cut the chit-chat, Martinez.”she replies, imagining the cigarette smoke that would have been billowing from his cigarette had the cafe allowed indoor smoking and had he been a smoker.
“What? I’m not allowed an interest in the life of an old friend?”
“You bastard, Martinez! Just tell me why you called me here!” He takes a long pause after that, stirring sugar into his coffee. Clockwise. Anti-clockwise. Clockwise again.
“I’ve been reading your blog.”
She scoffs at this, “oh?”
“It’s not very good.”
A sarcastic laugh escapes her, “Well fuck you, Martinez. Fuck you.”
“I wanted to talk to you about GIFs.”
“Jesus, Martinez. Is that what this is about? You need to stay the fuck out of my life.  I’ll use however many GIFs I want.”
” But you can’t! Don’t you trust me? I’m trying to help you.”
“Damnit Martinez!” She stands up now, quickly, the chair slides backwards slightly, “Where was your help when the WOW server was down? Huh? Where were you when I decided to buy an iPone 4S? I needed you and you abandoned me! Now you’re saying I use too many GIFs? Fuck you.”
“I’m not saying you use too many GIFs. I’m saying you can’t use them.”
“Why not? The International Internet Parliament lifted the ban in 2013, there’s legislation to prove it!”
“No.” he looks sad now, as if he knows something she doesn’t, “There is no legislation.”
“What? No!”
“There is no International Internet Parliament.”
Tears are streaming down her face like if she had a shower tap in front of it,”What are you trying to say?”
“There is no GIFs”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! MAAAARRRTTTIIIIINNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZZZZZZ!”


Off the record: Here’s something fun!

September 22, 2012

When people say to me things like, ‘you have no life experience, you barely know how to keep yourself alive.’ I reply ‘who needs experience when you’ve got Google!’

So to make amends for my  inconsistent posting here are the last 5 things I asked Google:

1. Can you get cancer from having a computer on your lap?

2. How do I cook pork properly? (note: this did NOT end well. Google’s pork skills are NOT reliable.)

3. What the hell just happened to all my laundry?

4. How to become a Private Investigator?

5. Addicting doesn’t sound like a word?

In summation, although it is pretty great Google should not be a substitute for real life experience.  If the pork looks undercooked, it is undercooked. If the label says ‘warm machine wash’ it means ‘warm machine wash’.  If the ASA says they need $2000 for your course/licensing fee  then that’s not a test, you need to pay them. 

As much as I love the internet there’s just so much reality can teach you.

In my next post I’ll answer the question, “Dear Lord, why?”