When I was going through my writings IRL and I saw all the things that I had written about Verification— about social media this, social media that— I ripped that shit up, homeslice. It wasn’t because I was embarrassed. It was because that shit was old. A lot of the things I spend a long time writing up, they’re old by the time I’m finished writing about them.
Give you an example. I had this idea for a ‘media policy’. As in, what social media networks I’d use; which I wouldn’t. As if I were punishing some, by not gracing them with my presence. Largely they don’t care; and I don’t have any real need for most social networks. I don’t understand Instagram, for example; and I don’t intend on ever streaming again. So Twitch is fucking dog shit to me.
You might have read the big pieces I did on Verification and such-and-such, and, mostly, it was me trying to put my mind at ease. I wanted to put these things down onto paper; and, when I publish them, it makes me feel better. Because the words can exist there; I don’t have to think about them anymore.
Largely no one understands what I’m doing. But that’s okay. I don’t give a shit about what a barely-evolved species of half-apes thinks about me: they can’t decide whether or not they want to fuck me or kill me. Their opinion is fucking moot.
What I do care about is how these things taste in my head. That is to say, how I feel about these things; their presence, out there. Here.
And the answer is, I simply do not want to talk about contemporary things on my main website anymore.
I can talk about them here; and then, delete them, when I’m done wif dem.
Easy peasy lemon strangulation.
The Problem with Listing Problems
Seven years ago I was beginning work on what I thought was my first creative writing venture: a story that’s been prefaced, and barely mentioned, in The Christmas Button. (Those fuckin’ stories probably aren’t getting done for another ten years, either; so enjoy that for what it’s worth, since those stories are chronologically past the end of the timeline I’m actually writing about. Sucks!)
Then my Dad died.
That has a bit of an effect. I can see the stark and terrible change in the tone of my writing, overnight.
Slightly before my Dad died? Cheerful; silly; playful. I wrote several pieces about trolling, and they were nice.
After my Dad died?
Jesus I’m grim. I’m grimdark. And it sucks; because, as much as I want to recapture that ‘playful’ little tone, my Dad’s fucking dead, my dudes. He’s dead. It ain’t comin’ back.
Not without a lot of healing, at least.
When it comes to listing problems (yes we’re getting back to the point oh boy here we go!!), saying that something is a problem is a supremely temporal issue. Meaning, what’s a problem today, isn’t even a subconscious thought, tomorrow.
Give you an example. One of the big pieces I did was on how Twitter never did anything about people impersonating me.
Granted, the problem was, shall we say, mild. It was just a mild bit of impersonation. Many of them didn’t really try at it; they weren’t dedicated enough at it to last more than about a week. Most barely lasted a day.
But it was impersonation. At the time, I remember my friend saying to me, what is there to impersonate? And while I don’t appreciate the sentiment, before he said that, there was a point. I started caring about impersonation somewhere just before the junction when I realized I could use it as a wedge-issue, to get Verified.
Were people impersonating me? Yes.
Was it enough that people would get confused as to which one was which? Genuinely, sometimes. There were people who copied my name closely enough that, for one week there, I had a bit of a scare.
And then they started using racial sllurs, and their account went bye-bye. Dumb trolls.
Other people lived. They survived. They were much more careful; and, in their zest and zeal to piss me off, ‘harass’ me— I’m unharassable, by-the-by— they said a bunch of dumb shit and then pointed people to my account, pretending that they were me.
So was it enough to get Verified for?
Y’know, I don’t know what the line was. But I did get impersonated for most of my time on Twitter.
Anyways, the point here that I’ve been leading up to is, come probably Monday, anyone with $8 USD will have the ability to impersonate me, to a greater degree that I will be able to substantiate my own existence.
Will this be a problem? Will someone drop ten bux I mean $8 online, just to piss me off, and say that they’re me?
God, I sure fuckin’ hope not. That would be weird. That might make me frow up.
But it’d be funny!
In any case, the point being— I can’t stop it. Complaining about impersonation is mootles, now.
I can’t stop it.
The Quest for Perfection
My main website has not had much content on it at all for most of its existence, simply because I did not know what to put on it. Everything seemed so contemporary.
Then I started writing about space aliems. And then I was like… … … this is some good shit. I wanna save this. not all of it, mind you: a lot of the later ‘Space Alien Research Report’ posts were me trying to spitball how to introduce the aliems to yoots guise. And, en generale, not only do I no longer want to introduce humankind to space aliens, I fucking hate humans. Jesus Christ you’re weird. And if you’re not, we can hang.
Anyways the benadryl is taking effect now and I’s gonna go to sleeples at THE CRACK OF 8 A.M.!!
As Pokey the Penguin might say,