I have a very difficult relationship with my blog. I always have. It’s a love/hate relationship if ever there was one.
Lately, however, it’s been more hate than love, and a couple of months ago, I seriously considered hitting the almighty ‘delete’ key and putting the Internet out of its misery. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
Each time I went back and read one of my posts, I always thought “man, what a self-important, narcissistic, negative, misanthropic, whiny piece of shit.”
All I ever do on this thing is complain.
Clearly, life isn’t all bad, though. Sometimes, it’s downright pleasant. My family is wonderful, my colleagues are great, and I’m fortunate to have friends who aren’t passive-agressive, hyper-effeminate posers who use the word “amazing” in every other sentence. Trust me, in modern day Seattle, I’m one of the few people who can make this same.
This being the case, why is my blog such a black cloud? Why does it seem like all I do is bitch, moan, whine, and complain?
For whatever reason, with me, anger fuels passion. When it comes to creative endeavors, negativity … frustration, anger, depression, etc … motivates me more than happiness and contentment. It’s the way I deal with negative things. It’s my catharsis. My prozac. My wrist-cutting.
When I’m in a great mood, I have no desire to sit in front of a computer and tell people about it. Instead, when I’m happy, I want to go out and do stuff … productive stuff … fun stuff … happy stuff.
When things are good, I have no anger, and the less anger I have, the less passion I have, and the less passion I have, the less likely I’m going to bang out a 2,000 word article at two in the morning.
I’m never going to write a blog post entitled “Everything’s Just Fine”. If everything’s just fine, I’m going to enjoy the fact that everything’s just fine … I’m not going to jinx it by bragging about it.
After the thousandth email calling me a negative jerk, and thinking it over for a couple of months, I’ve decided to stop feeling bad about it.
“You’re always so negative, you complain all the time, you’re a whiner … “, the critics may be right, but I’m not going to apologize for it any more.
You see, the world needs misanthropes. It needs pessimists. Every bit as much as it needs optimists. Probably moreso.
Remember the guy that built the better mousetrap? He was a pessimist. He looked at the existing mousetraps and declared “These fucking mousetraps fucking suck!” Then, while the other townspeople were busy having fun and attending ice cream socials … he sat in his basement, cursed under his breath, and built a better mousetrap.
Look at our forefathers. The people who fled England and started the USA. You think they were optimists? You think they looked on the goddamn bright side?
Hell no, they didn’t. Half of them died on a boat somewhere between Buckingham Palace and Plymouth Rock just so they didn’t have to share a country with people like you.
Trust me, I know the feeling. I’m not in the goddamn far-flung, isolated corner of the USA by accident.
Pessimists are unpopular people who, more often than not, do shit. Certainly way more than their glass-half-full counterparts. I’ve put more free content on the Internet over the past 7 years than any other unpaid individual I know, and you and I both know that it’s way more than you and all of your happy, cheerful friends combined. Face it, malcontents rule the world … the rest of you are just too busy drinking beer, watching football, and posting pictures of your cat on Facebook to realize it.
The other question I’m sick of answering is why I choose my topics.
“Why did you write another post about the weather? Why is there another picture of the ferry?”
Do you really want to know why I just posted another weather piece?
Well, I’ll tell you.
Fuck you, that’s why. If you don’t like it, feel free to surf over to The Stranger and read Dan Savage calling 54 year-old housewives squares because they have the audacity not to take it up the pooper.
Ohhhh … edgy!
If I write about something, that’s what’s on my mind at the moment. That’s what motivated me to put words on a monitor. I don’t know why that is, nor are you owed a goddamn explanation. My blog is free to you. I don’t have ads, I don’t set tracking cookies, I don’t make shit from any of it. I could talk exclusively about my morning erections for the next 8 years, and you’ll still have gotten more than you paid for.
After a couple of months off, I realized that if I was going to continue this blogging thing, I was going to have to make some changes, and the first change is to invite you all to kiss the crack of my ass.
I don’t owe you anything. I never have. If you don’t like my website, then guess what … it’s not for you. Feel free to go elsewhere. I care nothing about traffic, popularity, or your approval. In fact, on that last point, nothing could concern me less.
“I used to like your blog but I don’t anymore because blah blah blah”, good for you, go tell your mother because I don’t care. I’m not your fucking dancing monkey, and I’m not here to entertain you. If you want to be entertained, go buy a lap dance.
This blog is the goddamn Seattle Rex Show … either turn it on or turn it off … the fuck if I care either way, and I mean that with every ounce of sincerity that I have.
Last but not least, I don’t have to publish every one of your stupid comments. If they’re intelligent and add to the discussion, I gladly will. It does not matter if you do or do not agree with me, if the comment is intelligent, I’ll publish it. If it’s the same tired bullshit, however, then it will completely depend on my mood.
You are not owed a say on the blog that I pay to publish. I have no obligation to you whatsoever. It’s my bandwidth, my disk space, my digital home. I work too hard and pay too much to maintain the thing for you to come and projectile shit all over it. I don’t have to run your poorly-thought-out brainfarts under my name so that they are forever indexed beside the words that I paid to publish. This is especially true when you don’t even want your own name to appear beside your words. If you don’t want to be identified with your comment, don’t expect me to want to be identified with it. I don’t owe you an audience that you’ve done nothing to earn.
If you want to call me a fuckbag, get off your lazy ass, turn off the TV, spend some money, spend some time, make your own website, and call me a fuckbag until your heart’s content. The more power to you. If you ask nicely, I may even help you set up seattlerexisafuckbag.com. Or go to the den of noise, insincerity, and mediocrity … social media, and say it there.
I guess what I’m really trying to say with all of this is … I may or may not continue the blog, but if I do continue it, it will require me to do one thing first, and that thing is to tell each and every one of you to go fuck yourselves. In order to stop repeating myself, I need to write a post to refer people to when they email me for the nine thousandth time to call me negative, bitch about my topics, or complain that their idiotic, useless comment was not published.
Consider it done.