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confusion bullshit! food for thought antiposeur extraordinaire the forum |
GLOSSARY: blogger noun 1. a free publishing tool that allows one to post onto the web 2. somebody who blogs to blog transitive verb the act of blogging, that is, publishing on the web via the blogger tool blog noun a composite set of posts arranged in chronological order I have a secret. I am a blogger. A romantic would rhapsodize about freedom of speech, and call it, “democratic publishing”. And it is. You don’t need to know a single thing about computers, except maybe, how to connect onto the internet. It’s also ridiculously easy: the site is blogger.com, and you need to… 1) sign up, 2) choose a template, 3) start blogging. There’s nothing to download, and again, free. Totally idiot-proof.* You can write whatever you want—rantings, diaries, deep philosophical musings, or simply nothing of import. Regardless of what you choose to write, Blogger gives you the means. You could argue that it’s a waste of time, countless hours glutting an indifferent computer screen with private emotions, thoughts, desires, musings, and aspirations. And there’s a vast cache of simply insufferable blogs, since the blog is reflective of the person. It’s only to be expected. Still, some blogs make up for it; they capture people in true form—crystallizing something rather breathtaking. To be privy like that, is rare. In real life, such firsthand intimacy is restricted to a handful of close friends. Blogger allows you to expand your horizons; they’re people you’ve never met, and never will meet. And there’s another thing. The experience is real, raw and wholly unexpected, if it’s a good blog. That’s my opinion of it, but Blogger is a different creature to everyone. For some, the amusement of the audience is first and foremost. Others flood you with intensely private outpourings. Still others treat their blog as a lackadaisical diary, too lazy to write in a real journal. And some use their blogs as a backboard in which to sound out ideas, heedless of what the reader might think. What does Blogger do for all of us, then? It puts little specks and sound bites of our persona and the fleeting emotions / thoughts / events of our lives into posterity. Immortalizes. It satisfies our arrogant superego, mollifies the puzzling human fear of obsolescence, and quiets the wistful mania for sharing, all at the same time. Powerful, isn’t it? *Don’t prove me wrong here. It’s worlds easier than maintaining a website. No HTML required. SPECKS & SOUND BITES FROM [MOSTLY] FEBRUARY (yes, this is from mine): July 20, 2001 Oh, btw. I made Musket! I'm features editor. I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing though. February 5, 2002 The time, how it flies... into brick walls. February 12, 2002 Do you ever wonder how lucky you are to know certain people? I mean, with all the people in the world... you could've been stuck with all [sorts of] people. And since I can't [help but] end on at least a semi-sarcastic note: maybe the person's lucky to have you. ^_~ February 14, 2002 On e-mail spam: Do I have septic tank problems? I don't think we have a septic tank. February 11, 2002 I get out of homeroom, and the world has suddenly turned into a confectioner's nightmare. / Hmm… must find Tsung-Han. Where the hell is that kid? / At the present moment, I'm blogging, and that fact supercedes all else. / I've just grilled five pounds of chicken. My room is the only place in the house that doesn't smell like cumin and mesquite. Note: Future job in fast-food business not preferred. February 13, 2002 Have you ever wondered why gummy worms exist? Why worms? Why? February 17, 2002 Geez, I'm sitting here and cracking up at my own blog. How sad is that? I'm going to do my chem hw now. February 20, 2002 "Ecce" is such a funny word. You can't fully appreciate it unless you take Latin, however. / There were a great many dark, forbidding buildings... they were quasi-medieval—in the sense that they weren't authentic medieval, but fantasy book medieval. February 1, 2002 I always feel so guilty after blogging so much… It's like sleeping too much; you wake up glutted. |
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