Everything is wrong with me
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
damage control
It's becoming more and more obvious to me that someday, probably sometime soon, either my parents or my co-workers are going to find this site.

And that's ok with me. I've never really understood the whole point of blogging anonymously (god, I HATE the word "blog" and all its variations), but you should probably ask me if I understand this after I've been fired and I'm begging you people to send me cash, non-perishable food items, and cases and cases of condoms. Or after my dad stops speaking to me and my mom has a heart attack because she can't believe her golden-boy son, who once placed 7th in the Philadelphia City Spelling Bee and loved the New Kids on the Block with all his heart (his favorite: Danny), now writes about handjobs on the internet.

But really, what's the point? Is blogging anonymously the corporate drone's only way of living out his Batman/Bruce Wayne fantasy? Why not just sack up and say, "Hey - this is me. I know that most of my posts make fun of retarded people and how I don't get laid, but you know what? That's what consumes my mind eighteen hours a day."

I've actually told my parents that I have a site, just not this site.

Me: "Dad, here's the deal - I've sort of become an internet quasi-celebrity."
Dad: [smoking two cigarettes at once, checking over his tattoos, surprised] "What the hell does that mean?"
Me: "Well, I, uh, don't know exactly. But I have a website that a lot of people read."
Dad: "Do you get any money from it?"
Me: "Well, no."
Dad: "So what's the point?"
Me: "Well, like I said, I'm becoming more and more famous."
Dad: "Famous? Come on - you're not famous. Sylvester Stallone is famous. Bruce Willis is famous. You're not famous."
Me: [silent, looking really confused, not really knowing how to respond to that]
Dad: [lighting two more cigarettes] "Besides, what's the point of being famous if you're not making any money?"
Me: "Yeah, look, that's not the point. I'm telling you this as sort of a heads up. It's not a site that you want your friends to see because, well, it's like a lot of bathroom humor."
Dad: "What do I care? I don't check the internet. Talk to me about this again when you're actually making money."
Me: "Um, ok."

Me: "Mom, I have a website, and a lot of people read it."
Mom: "Oooh - what's the address?"
Me: "I can't give it to you - you wouldn't like it."
Mom: "I bet Grandmom would like it, and I can send it to Aunt Lynn too."
Me: "No mom, you can't. It's vulgar."
Mom: [suddenly very saddened and confused] "Why would you have a vulgar website?"
Me: "It's not like I started the site to be vulgar; it's just my sense of humor."
Mom: "What's so funny about being vulgar?"
Me: "Mom, I don't know. I'm just telling you this because some people in the neighborhood read it, and it might get back to you, and I wanted to tell you myself."
Mom: "You don't talk about me, do you?"
Me: "Of course not."

So Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. But, let's be honest - this is really all your fault. And hey - at least I have a good job, and I'm not gay (mostly)! Isn't that all you can really ask for?


As for my co-workers, well, I'm more concerned about them then my parents. The worst my parents can do after finding this site is stop loving me (whatever); my co-workers can ruin my life by sending this to my superiors and getting my ass canned, which, since I have no money saved because of a small alcohol problem, would result in me being homeless in about three weeks.


Come to think of it, I don't think there's any specific reason I'd get fired. Sure, I write at work, but only on breaks (and by "breaks" I mean anytime between 9:30am and 5:30pm). I don't mention anything specific or confidential about my job, so I'm ok there. And I still manage to take care of everything pretty well as far as my work responsibilities. So I guess getting fired isn't main concern. Having to deal with co-workers that know I write about beating up homeless people is.

So if any of my co-workers stumble on this site: please don't tell me. Let's just pretend that you don't know about it, and think of me as the guy who makes personal calls all day long, smoke cigarettes at his desk, rarely wears a shirt, and one time didn't show up for a week and a half, only to come back to the office bleeding from his gums and yelling at people, "What? Like you're fucking perfect? Bunch of assholes!"

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