Recently I ventured into MomBlog there and I’ve never actually been to a blogging site before so I figured it would be a good new year’s sort of thing to wander over and see what the fuss was about.
I chose a bad day to go over there, as the front page looked like someone’s repressed conscious vomited up every ounce of painful repressed memory available. It read something like How My Mother Committed Suicide/Why I failed Rehab (again)/The Murder of my Father/Another Painful Miscarriage. PTSD nightmare. I fled. Later I learned this was an anomaly and I just happened to click on a particularly painful day. When I found that out I felt a little bad for all of those people who did post that day, as they blew their childhood-trauma wad on the same day that all of the other bloggers did, which likely damped the shock value they were going for. That kind of sucks.
Since then I’ve been returning to OS, trying to feel my way around the community and see what it’s all about. I’m not great with communities as I usually piss people off and then get kicked out, but I had a fleeting thought that I could have a grown-up blog and post on OS as well. Wouldn’t that be a nice resolution?
Until I realized, I don’t have anything to write about. The more I think about it, the more I realize, I have nothing to say.
Obviously I couldn’t post the shit I post here on a site that’s as nurturing an environment as Open Salon. I’d offend at least 50% of the readers and would be chased out by upset bloggers wielding comments drenched in gasoline and engulfed in flames. I’d be called all of those names that I always get called and that would be the end of that. I have a distinct feeling that no one over there would think observations on pubes in a public shopping area to be worthwhile journalism. So I’d need to find a new topic.
There are moms who write about their kids. But I don’t have kids. I just have cats. And a blog about two cats who pay me no attention would be painful at best. “Milo sat with his back to me again today at dinner. I called and called, but he would not turn. I ached with the pain of rejection.” Yeah, not so much.
Some people write about politics. I’m too stupid to write about politics. I don’t know enough about the Gaza Strip or bailout bills to sound the least bit convincing. I also have a feeling that for your political views to be accepted in a blogging community, you have to listen to NPR at least 3 hours a day, know exactly what was said on “All Things Considered” that afternoon, and be able to quote “The O’Reilly Factor” and then refute all of those points. I admit I don’t do that. And I’m ashamed. I sometimes wish I could to avoid the trap of being a lazy, ignorant American. But obviously I don’t wish hard enough.
Of course, I could follow the lead of Amy Tuteur, MD and some of the other doctors on the site and exploit my interactions with patients. But I have to say, if I were the one at home strung out on vicodin and nursing my labia blisters after my tryst with a stick of baby fresh Teen Spirit, I would be pretty fucking pissed that a doctor went and blabbed to the whole world what a horny moron I was. I know there are no “patient identifiers” included but that deodorant-fucker knows exactly who she is and is probably pretty damn unhappy about that.
I’m not willing to write about personal tragedies or childhood traumas. I rarely have moments of clarity or epiphanies that warrant paragraphs of blogging. And I can’t construct prose about the mundane worthy of anyone’s attention.
I finally accepted the truth. I don’t have a goddamn thing to say. I suppose that’s why I’m so busy watching everybody else these days. They’re just a hell of a lot more interesting.
