“Always” by Saliva, one of my favorite songs because it perfectly captures the truly crazily obsessive, borderline relationship.
I’ve written four entries to the ones I’ve managed to post, and I was drunk when I posted “Pandora Opens The Box…” I promised myself, right before I passed out, that I would pull it down, but next thing I remember, it’s the following morning and multiple people have already read it. It was a little of the “oops, maybe I shouldn’t have shared that with the world, especially with the subject of the material.”
My blogs have caused more disaster in my personal life than just about anything else–with the possible exception of alcohol. I’m extremely careful now about who I allow to know this identity and the person I am. Whenever you connect with people you’ve found through your blog (or give friends, or god forbid a boyfriend, the address), you run some major risks. The material in here could be used as emotional blackmail (I’ve had it happen, and it ain’t pretty).
I’ve thought seriously about closing down this one here the past few days, but my audience has grown quite a bit since the past month or so. I have no qualms from disappearing again, as I’ve done it multiple times, because either I didn’t want my boyfriend to know how many men I’ve fucked in the past (lord knows, I like to write about that shit), to being in love with a boyfriend’s best friend (ouch), to being stalked by my very attractive English professor who was sure I was writing about him most of time (I was because I was just obsessed with him as he was with me) to being emotionally manipulated because he had access to too much personal information through a blog.
Sounds bad because it is. I’ve been blogging since summer of 2000, so I’ve been around the blogging block. I have more than once become as fascinated by a fan as he/she is with me.
The problem is when you can’t write about what you want to write about because of some forseeable effect on someone else. Obviously, this is a risk in all writing, but sometimes it’s more of a possibility than other times. A lot of people would say that we can’t be responsible for how others will interpret our work (Mimi would definitely adhere to this rule), but I’m not so brazen. I’ve written more in the past two weeks than I’ve written probably this whole year total (it’s hard to write when you’re high, and I was high for parts of this year), and I can’t post most of it.
Blogging is like jerking off, it’s instant gratification, and I feel like I haven’t cum in three weeks, and I’m lying in bed with my dick in my hand–but I’m not allowed to stroke. Somehow I’m supposed to save myself for marriage (aka, having a book published). And I went to one of those schools that taught masturbation was evil.
I’m not in love with my own writing. It’s important to me, but these are not priceless works of art, and I’m not a dumbass (okay, so I was seriously questioning that today, but what can you do?). I don’t feel comfortable writing about what I want to write about, and I thought about the possibility of having this problem before I ever boarded to go to Vegas (I pretty much thought of every possibility, including falling in love with him, but somehow I thought he’d be more much enthralled with the idea).
So, I have no solution to this problem. In the past, I’ve just disappeared for a while (although I’ve never stopped blogging for very long), and in the end, I might do just that. Sometimes that’s just smarter anyway.
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