Maybe it was all pure hubris, believing that people needed to read about what happened to me every day. Or maybe it was all just a big writing assignment slash amusement park.
Fact: I used to tell the same story, honing it, tweaking the punchline pauses, over and over and over again. When I started blogging, I stopped doing that. I'd start to tell a story about something that happened. Stop. Say: "Well. Did you read my blog?" And eventually I just stopped making more than small talk with almost everyone.
I used to be really proud that I could extract the blog-able moment out of every day. A few days ago, maybe even last week, a guy who works at the gas station was singing, I mean really singing that "Constant Sorrow" song from "Oh Brother Where Art Thou." He came in from outside, moved along the perimeter of the store, back to the refrigerators and his voice was just gigantic. It felt like an epic moment. We'd find out later that he was famous. Or maybe he'd get famous after this. It would be his story. "... Used to sing while I stocked Dr. Pepper ..." The guy who was working the register rolled his eyes, if not every roll-able part of his body.
"Does he always do that?" I asked the kid.
"Is it so annoying?" Imagine working with that vibrating half of a harmonization.
I cackled. That story would have been worth 500 words, after I figured out what the song was called and what movie it was from.
Fact: When you take one thing, a conversation or a scene or an event, and record it, the entire collection becomes this filtered chapter book of your life. You can be pretty manipulative with that, if you do it right. It can get ugly if you do it wrong. Few have perfected the art of identical twin this-is-me and this-is-me-on-the-internet.
I feel like I'm writing all the time. And if not writing, reading something I'll write about. Yet none of those words seem to be ending up here. Sometimes I don't even notice that they aren't making it onto a screen.
First I disconnected my Twitter feed from Facebook.
Then I stopped having Facebook open every time I was online.
Then I ran out of things to Tweet.
Now Facebook is a place to post links to Goodreads and occasional photos.
I still can't think of anything to Tweet.
Maybe I'm become an internetrovert.
Fact: When I was in Los Angeles in May and surrounded by 20-plus strangers, I had a really hard time figuring out what to say to them. Especially in the beginning. Bus rides required seat partners required conversations. Like, conversations. At that time, I was barely thinking thoughts that lasted more than 140 characters. Let alone conversations. How pre-2006.
I wonder what this all means. Will I eventually just be completely without words? Conversation was killed by blogging was killed by Facebook was killed by Twitter was killed by sudden internetroversion. Soon Chuck will be the only person who ever witnesses a word come out of me. And considering our telepathic communication skills, those words will probably be limited to just "soup's on, bitches."