A little metatext here . . .

There's nothing lamer than ruminating about blogging on your blog, but I feel that the weight of my snide, peeved comments supersede this rule. Besides, I am the editor in chief here in my humble little universe.

This is the thing. Why does it bug me so much that blogging supplies a raison d'être for some people? Allow me to clarify. Some people record the minutiae of their daily existence on their blogs. This is what my cat ate for dinner. Oi, how I can't get this stain out of my sweater, etc. That's all fine and dandy, but what I sense is happening often is that sooner or later the anticipation of blogging, or reviewing (more on that at a later date), starts to shape not only the experiences before they are recorded later, but the perception of them while they are occurring as well. It is my belief that this phenomenon later results in doing things merely so that you can blog about them. To me, that's insincere, and disturbing, mainly because it highlights some of the existential ennui I feel when I think about what makes other people tick. It's the "look at me!" syndrome; the need to do things merely to be able to do the telling of the doing. It is disingenuous and jarringly narcissistic. Let's see. How many ways can I say fake? Phony. Artificial . . .

I think, however, that I must accept some of the blame for my ire. Why am I always searching for authenticity in people when they are merely trying to look good or seem intelligent or fashionable or successful or confident when they may in fact be none of these things? Perhaps it is the power of shaping your existence with thought, with tempering a trivial, grain-of-sand experience with a little meaning. That's meaning in the form of someone caring enough to observe and read the vain, trying recordation of someone else's not-so-interesting life.

I suppose we all want someone to care. But I don't want to want that. I spurn that want. Consider that want denied. I deny that desire because I want to have my own, private, authentic experience. But I am a hypocrite because here I am blogging about it. But it's only slightly hypocritical because no one reads this blog, so really it's just a readily accessible receptacle for inane thoughts.

Thank you and goodnight (afternoon, morning, whatever).