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We meet here in this little blue box and I tell you things about my views, my world, my life. I tell you anecdotes and rants and garbage and, very occasionally, the painful truth. No matter what I tell you, it's just a piece of me, a small fragment of who I am outside this nebulous cyber-place. It's nowhere close to an entire story.

Blogging is not an innocent pastime. Blogging is not detached, not inconsequential, not an escape from the rigors of Real Life. The line blurs and then blurs again, and it's gone. You write about life and one day you notice that your language somehow, very stealthily, crept off the screen and it's here, it's shaping relationships and encounters. It's upsetting people with its silence and sparking random pixie conversations at Canadian Tire. It has crossed the boundaries that you always assumed were well in place. You wonder how big of a nerd you have to be to admit that a website is part of you, like a finger or toenail or tongue.

One by one, I've watched other bloggers come to grips with the fact that their online persona is very much a shallow forum for their deep character, a public parade. They've felt on-display and misunderstood. It's part of the medium, but it's also very disconcerting. People think they know you but all they've got is a handful of shards, shards that you carefully chose for them.

I'm telling you this now because you need to know that there's so much more than I could ever possibly describe. You need to know that I had sex with your mother last June while you were away at archery camp.

Posted by Chris at 01:52 PM >> Commentations (2)