An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Does This Blog Make My Ass Look Big?

Ever feel... insecure?




Of course you do-- you're bloggers, and most of you are female. So feeling insecure and not-so-fresh is practically your business, for Christ's sake. You're constantly in a positively feral search for validation, comfort, rote flattery and cuddles if you can get them.

And I don't blame you. I likes me that shit, too.

(Espech the cuddles. Totes and natch.)

It's funny-- if you ever take the time to look back and reflect on why you started blogging (just pretend you're being interviewed on CBS Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood, alone in your room, like I used to do when I was twelve) you might be surprised by what your motives were back then, if you can remember back that far because of all those drugs you did to get you through your early twenties.

I remember vividly why I started my old blog. I did it as a kneejerk response to the anger and rage I felt against the exclusive girls Catholic school I subbed at for a month whose Lord High Penguin found "something on my Google" that contained obscenities and ordered me (on my last day of scheduled teaching) not to return to campus.

"Fuck that cunt," I said to my wife after I had recovered from the shock of my first official dismissal, and after doing, if you'll pardon my self-aggrandizement, a wonderful job with my students, "I'm not changing who I am for anybody-- I'm just going to be anonymous about it."

Aaaaand that's what I did, and that's why I did it.

I didn't know anything about blogging when I started and, two-ish years later, I still don't. Well, I know there are rules and etiquette, about commenting and responding to comments, and there are time-tested theories about cultivating followers and gaining recognition, promoting other bloggers, promoting yourself, scoring book deals, eschewing mediocrity, purchasing domain names and social networking.

But, really, I don't know anything. I just blog because it feels good.

But, is it the clickety clackety of the keyboard keys that feels good? Is it surfing through endless layers of pop culture and anti-pop culture and headlines and family minutae in search of a bloggable blogglette that feels good?


It's the COMMENTS!

Because, in comments, there is validation. And cyber-cuddles. Get over here, Ms. Snuffleschmump! Gimme a squelch!

When I started blogging, I had no idea what comments were, and what their point was. Though my old blog is shut down and forever spirited away, I suspect that, if I were to raise it from the dead and check, it was probably, like, five months before I ever got my first comment. When I did, it was like Jesus rays streaming through the clouds of my mind. It was like when you shit so hard that you see Technicolor spots. It was like an angel tickling my asshole with a quail feather while singing like Eddi Reader.

I was like, "Oh."

Something clicked. And, at the same time, something snapped. This was what blogging was all about, I realized.

And, at the same time, I must have more of it.

Comments on my writing have always been, well, unsatisfying. I used to bang out questionable stories, poems, and sketches on typewriters, word processors and, eventually, computers upstairs in the play room and I would come downstairs all triumphant with my six or seven pages of profanity-laced material about men in suits behaving in bizarre ways, and I would read the material to my parents, seated dutifully in the living room.

"That's very nice," was my mother's stock reply. My father, generally speaking, needed a second or third reading to prompt any response, being Israeli and all.

I routinely fell in love with English teachers and, later, professors. Not in the I-wanna-prematurely-ejaculate-all-over-your-back way (I only wanted to do that to my 11th grade math teacher) but in the I-want-you-to-love-and-respect-me-and-admire-my-talents way. See, I have this thing for intelligent authority figures, of whatever gender-- doesn't matter. I crave their recognition and their adulation, and I began to realize, slowly-- very slowly-- that the reason I wrote creatively was exclusively for the reaction from these individuals. I craved their intelligent, witty, and supportive comments.

When my creative writing seminar professor in college called me a genius, I was seized by an unshakeable desire to legally adopt her daughter.

And now, here I am, bereft of my coveted intellectual authority figures, but still doing the same damn fool old thing-- writing for, well, I suppose it's love. What kind? Well, I don't know. The "That's nice" comments from my mother are conspicuously absent from this blog because, well, I can't show it to her, even though she wouldn't be surprised by anything in it-- she would just be furious that it's out in public. And I doubt that any of my old professors and/or teachers read this blog, though that would make things very interesting.

You're here, of course. And that means a lot to me, as I think I've mentioned. I hope this doesn't give your weirdsies, or put you in the uncomfortable and regrettable position of feeling compelled to comment all or even some of the time, because you know that I'm sitting in my home office or my office office kneading my knuckles and turning my lips into that pathetic, pursed frown, hoping for a glimmer of validation. Because I wouldn't want you to say something nice, just because you think you should. I just want you to know why I blog, because I think that all of us should be asking ourselves that question, even if the answer is kind of odd, or kind of painful, or kind of absurd, or kind of cute.

You... do think I'm cute. Right?


  1. i used to send my mom entries via email but she stopped reading them.

    now i'm seeking validation from my writing workshop instructor. HE WILL LOVE ME!!!!!!!!!!

  2. "So feeling insecure and not-so-fresh is practically your business, for Christ's sake." Love it. And I love your new disclaimer. I have to admit I have to be careful where I am when I read your blog because I tend to laugh out loud. Thank goodness the classroom I am subbing in today is empty, or they would think their sub was a little crazy. Whatever the reason you started, I am glad that you are still blogging.

  3. I dig your blog big time. I always like an honest male and will take your sarcasm and humor over some mommy blog or crafting blog by a lady.

    I don't have a clue about blogging either. When people leave comments I always take a look at their blog, but being big enough to have advertisers, get discovered the Diablo Cody route...and all that good stuff wouldn't hurt.

  4. Who the hell is Diablo Cody? I suppose we'll just add him/that to the ever-expanding list of things I don't know.

  5. You, sir, are adorable. Anyone who tries to say that they don't get an emotional payoff from blog comments is fucking lying. I'd like to say I would still write if I never got any, and I think I would, just because of the emotional payoff I get from expressing myself. But. I will openly admit that I throw private hissy fits when I post I loved writing is met with silence.

  6. I write because I love writing. I actually used to be good at it, back in school (I had a similar thing about authority figures, except it was only ONE authority figure; my English teacher)... then I went to college (aka went to no lectures and spent my days chattering away on college radio, sleeping and drinking more alcohol than my liver was able to process without sending some of it back up the way it came).

    So my brain stagnated, and then I became a legal secretary and well you can just imagine the workout your brain gets from typing out dictations. None. Nada. Zero workout.

    Then I blogged about sex, because it was a whole new world I was exploring and it's something I enjoy, but then my boyfriend found my blog and shut it down...

    Then I broke up with said boyfriend and blogged about being single, because too many funny stories come from meeting new people for me not to have shared them with the world... but then I met my current boyfriend so that blog was shut down...

    And now I'm back in college learning German and Japanese, and I blog because I miss writing. I enjoy it. I love the English language and I feel like I've lost the voice I used to have when writing. My blog is an attempt to find that voice again, cheesy as that sounds.

    Okay. I realise when you say you like comments you probably don't mean the comment equivalent of War and Peace, so I'll stop there. I was on a bit of a roll! Sorry about that...

  7. This was perfect. But I blog less for the comments and more for the followers. Though I love comments!! Especially yours!! Don't stop commenting. Please.

  8. Oh, of course you're cute, my little Apron!

    You know I like you. 'Cause I told you. Well, I wrote it on my blog (ages ago), but if it's out there in the ethers then that's as good as telling you, I think.

    But because you're feeling insecure today and I'm a nice person, I'll tell you right to your face. Or, page. Or whatever.

    I'm like a Mr Apron groupie. Without the sex.

    I once saw my name above your name in a blogroll, and I almost died because I was like "There's no way I'm better than Mr Apron! Mr Apron is superior to me in every way! I hope he has a throne!". Little did I know, the blogroll was one of those ones that puts whoever has updated first at the top. So then I got to feel inferior again which made me a lot more comfortable.

    And then you came onto 20sb once and I saw it because I was on chat and I became all nervous because I was like "What if Mr Apron joins in the conversation?! I'm not worthy of his conversation! He's like an internet legend!". True story.

    And yes, I swear, I'm making you an award. I've just been asleep or busy the past few days.

  9. Squelch.

    Why write if nobody reads it?

    I personally hate the word cute. People call me that and it makes me feel like I'm just a tawny thick-furred lop-eared rabbit. Maybe you want to be one. But I won't reduce you to that. I'll stick with beautiful. You're beautiful, Mr. Apron.

  10. Sometimes I wonder why I'm blogging. It's not for the comments. And there are certainly more productive uses of my time, as my husband points out, like actually writing something that I can publish for money. I blame blogging on my compulsive nature. Once I start something I can't stop. There's no end in sight.

  11. Oh, Colleen-- tell that husband of yours that money is so, so overrated!

  12. Jesus Apron you're so needy.
    Loves ya

  13. Validation, amen.


    Comments are like crack.

    Which means I'm totally your dealer right now. And you are so totally my bitch.



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