My friends have invented a name for the "me" that I am online, in my diary and on my blog and things. He's called Online Donald. It's not radically different or anything. I use big words in real life, Online Donald uses big words online. In real life I tell people how great Elvis Costello is and nobody cares, and Online Donald rhapsodizes to no effect about the genius of "My Aim Is True." It's just that Online Donald gets to appear all writerly and poetic, because until the blog, nobody out there in radioland knew what I looked like.
Now you do. Try to keep the marriage proposals to under 1,000 words, my Yahoo mail account is crowded as hell.
But until this, you had no idea. You could build your own me, so to speak. Think that maybe I lived up to the lofty aspirations of the writing, maybe I was just this funny and cool in real life. Everything out of my mouth was gold. Or maybe you figured I was a computer-addicted loser who finessed the online stuff because in real life he can't walk three feet without tripping, who has a psuedo-mullet because he's too lazy to get a haircut (tommorow, I promise.) You would've been right if you thought the second one. Here's a cookie.
If you look at this picture the right way, it looks like I have massive Popeye forearms. Then blink and look back, they're praying-mantis arms. If you stumble into the room drunk in the middle of the night and then stare through your gauzy state at the monitor, I look sort of like Steven Seagal. I promise. Go get some whiskey and we'll prove it.
The Beastie Boys said it best when they said, Girls/that's all I really want is girls. In a way, I miss middle school, and freshman year, maybe, too, because then all I had to do was notice a girl, develop a ridiculous infatuation with her, create every aspect of her personality to my specifications and not really ever talk to her, hoping against hope that something would happen so I could be really good and bitter when it never did. That was great. I always got what I wanted, because what I really wanted, I think, secretly, was to be alone and pissed off. Such a glamorous thing to be. No one actually wants their dreams fufilled, because if they are we don't have anything to write about. I think I've lost that ability, though, to construct these towering crushes. I can barely like a girl, now. I have subtle interest in plenty of women, 'cause damn, they seem to be everywhere and be cute as hell and have funny things to say. But I could really fetishize a girl back in the day, I'd build you a shrine in my head and you wouldn't even know it, votive candles and pictures of your smile and everything, you wouldn't even notice me and to me you'd be everything. Can't do that anymore. I've learned. It was dumb and I always ended up hurt without even having tried a damn thing. But now I can't even focus on one girl. They all seem like they'd be romantically disinterested anyway, except for this one. I appreciate her more than the world for reminding me that I can be liked, it's happened before and it'll probably happen again, but I can't work up the courage to really get to know her, for some reason.
Maybe it's more fun for me to shut out people who want to be with me so I can write thunderous paragraphs about being alone.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
"There were a lot of things that I wouldn't have to do again. Like messing up my life just so I could write stupid little songs about it."