It's Not You, It's Me

Sit down, blog – we need to talk. I know I’ve been somewhat distant of late and you’ve probably been hurt and confused by that. The truth is – and you may have guessed it, no matter how little you want to believe it – I’ve been seeing other websites.

It started out as a bit of harmless fun, something to fill in those odd moments between housework and child-wrangling and bed when anything requiring time or greater-than-minimal brain power was out of the question.

My friendship with Blogspot Bingo started out innocently enough: we giggled together as I typed random words and phrases into the address bar, seeing how many of her acquaintance’s addresses we could guess. There were surprisingly many, as we discovered, but most of their blogs were defunct after only one entry. I began to suspect that BB was unacquainted with anyone not trite, unoriginal or incapable of sustained effort. There was something faintly sad about so many introductory posts, full of optimism and promises for blogging fulfilment to be had by all, which were also the final posts. BB was, as well, a jealous mistress, leaving entry after entry in my address bar and erasing details of my familiar friends in the hopes that I would forget them and dally only with her. I had no choice but to break it off.

Then came Google Image Labeller, the sly minx who, upon noticing my dissatisfaction with ineffectual image searches, whispered seductively in my ear that all would be made better. All she needed was my help – she was such a silly little thing, and I had such big, strong cerebral muscles – it would only take a minute.

“Just take a look at these pictures,” she simpered, “and tell me what you see. It’s all too much for little old me to make heads or tails of, and I’ll be ever so grateful…”

But as I soon discovered, GIL was perverted and selfish. Her pleasure came from watching me with others – morons, slow typers, she didn’t care who – and stubbornly refusing to release me from her unholy pairing until I’d debased myself by labelling pictures ‘boobs’, ‘guy’ or ‘thing’. And after witnessing me stoop so low, was she remorseful? No! I could hear her mocking laughter as she tossed me a few hundred points which were all as worthless as confederate cash. She took my time and my pride and gave me nothing in return. I left her to her slavish worshippers.

For a while there, you and I were happy together. We talked and laughed about anything and everything, reminiscent of those heady days when we first met. Then came The Crash, that cataclysmic event which thrust me back into the internet-deprived early nineties and forced me to reapportion time I’d formerly lavished on you. I discovered that I was more independent than I thought, that I could get along without you or any homepage wreckers on the side. The burden of maintaining a steady stream of tribute to satisfy your desperate demands, which had imperceptibly grown harder to bear over the last few months, dissolved away. So it was that, when we could see each other once again, my enthusiasm had waned. I felt I didn’t have time for you anymore, that perhaps I should concentrate on other things, like the novels that languish, weeping and hideously malformed, in some dark, cobwebbed corner of my Documents folder. But I cannot abandon you. It was you who lured me away from those very novels, with your promise of instant, guilt-free gratification without the hard work of plotting and character development. I loved you, in my self-absorbed way. But now, just as you were my distraction, my procrastination, you too are the obligation I run from, into the arms of Yahoo Answers.

She is the most seductive temptress of all, for she understands the human desire to declaim one’s opinion on anything and everything, to flock to others of the same mind, and derisively dismiss those who disagree. Oh, I know you’ll argue you do the same, but she delivers the anonymity of the drive-by shooting that you, with your obsession for building a reputation and fanbase, never could.

But never fear, love. I grow tired of YA’s lack of discernment, her provision of services to anyone – no matter how foolish or crazy – that requests them. I’ll come back to you soon enough and beg forgiveness for straying. It’s not you with the problem, it’s me. Everyone needs to sow their wild bytes.