Okay, it’s a big internet, too big, and I have to downsize or I’ll never get my book written.
Oh, didn’t you know? I’m writing a book. Although, so far, it’s mostly just titles of stories I want to flesh out – beyond their titles, I mean. I had one story finished. It’s called “Genius”, but for some reason (it was boring and stupid and had no point, the characters were lame and uninteresting, and it was about as funny as brain cancer – also, it wasn’t finished, I’m lying again because that’s part of the book writing process – lying about its progress) I decided to redo it. Now I have two of one story that doesn’t have any reason to be, unless my goal is to have purchasers of it use it for target practice.
Heh – although, gun enthusiasts probably won’t form the bulk of my audience, even though my brother did have a pellet gun and we enjoyed shooting cans off fence posts down at our farm, which was my mother’s idea of a summer cottage.
Omigawd – how spoiled sounding is that, eh? We just had a summer farm passed down through the generations (neighbouring farmers used the land to graze cattle, our farm wasn’t actually ever farmed) – not a real summer cottage.
My sister-in-law, to her credit, was mystified as to our purpose of going down to stay on the farm during the summer (I realize now it was my mother’s way of getting rid of our grandmother, and us, for the summer – she never even stayed overnight, herself) because the nearest water was miles away and the property was set on sandy soil that only grew dry brown grass.
But seriously, I suck. My book is going to be autobiographical, too, which means I don’t just suck at writing, my entire existence sucks.
(And I just remembered a horrible day at work, speaking of pellet guns, back in the 80s, when I was in the office of a co-worker going over job statistics for a Question Period briefing and his phone rang. It was his only sister and she was calling to tell him that her son had just been killed. It was an accident, a pellet gun mishap. I can feel it right now, actually, the awkward horror – I was still standing in his office because he had given me the hold on sign when his phone rang – when he hung up the phone, totally in a state of shock, and told me what had just happened. Sudden death really puts partisan politics in perspective.)
Luckily, beggars can’t be choosers and I crave the sense of accomplishment that will come when I’ve penned, let’s say… 30 anecdotes from my life and the lives of my nearest and dearest and total strangers whose lives I’ve had the pleasure of making all about me.
Me, me, me. That really says it all about my book to be. Me.
So yesterday, I started a new story and now I have two of one story and half of another story that I plan to skillfully combine into three finished masterpieces today. The joke will be on the reader, of course, so don’t tell him. Or her. Consider this privileged information.
Omigawd, writing a book is so hard. And, of course, I do all my writing on the same little netbook that I do all my internetting. As previously blogged, I had to give up commenting on my favourite blog, Dr. Dawg’s. I claimed it was because of the name calling (whenever he blogs about Palestinian massacres, the ones perpetrated by the state of Israel, I mean, Conservative apologists show up to express their anti-Palestinianism and call other commenters anti-Israel) but really, it was the time-wasting argument.
It doesn’t matter which argument – they’re all time-wasters.
And, you know, women get tagged by men as argumentative all the time, but the commenters over at Dr. Dawg’s place are almost all men, and man oh man do they get off on bouncing that big ball of stupid back and forth.
But who am I to judge?
A woman, that’s who. I don’t like being called something I’m not. Now that I’m away from the argument, though, I can see it wasn’t the name calling, it was the big ball of stupid being bounced back and forth. After all, if you think walling a disgruntled and disenfranchised population with nothing to lose into an open air prison along the shore of your country is an indication of superior intelligence, well, you’re an idiot and I’m surprised I’m not one, too, for having ever argued with you.
Phew. That felt good.
Of course, Dr. Dawg was just one part of a two part time waster for me. The other was my Facebook friend, Antonia Zerbisias. Yes, I said was. She’s still my friend, but I’m going to try my damnedest to stay off her page. Or, at least, stop commenting on her status updates. That’s because I’m not casual about my commenting, I’m all in, and I’m subjective. I’d blame everybody else for being a stupidhead, but I think everybody else is easy come easy go and I’m really not.
For instance, yesterday, I mixed it up with a gun owning lesbian in her 60s who likes to shoot. My only point about guns is that I think people should stop buying them. Her only point about guns is that she likes shooting them. So you can see where we were going to end up, right? That’s right – bouncing a big ball of stupid back and forth.
Also, the argument about guns has morphed into the inevitable modern day argument about men vs women, and I have a real chip on my shoulder when it comes to men. Ever since I was a little Feminist growing up in sexist Northern Ontario I’ve resented male privilege, the casual ease with which men assume positions of authority, their smug acceptance as standard-bearers for the rest of us, i.e. women.
Except that my response to men is based on a reality that no longer exists. It’s a girl’s world now, even in those parts of the world where men are denying female human rights. And maybe it always was a girl’s world. Certainly an entire history of having to be better than boys just to be allowed access to the playing field has had an effect on our development. And now that the barriers to academic and professional success have been removed, at least in this part of the world, well, I think we’re done here. Good job, everybody.
Now stop buying stuff, girls – we’re consuming ourselves into oblivion. And stop having babies, ferchrissakes. No more babies. Enough with babies. Babies are over. Just say no to babies.
But of course men are going to be defensive about what comes across on the internet as an attack on boys. It’s not, of course, it’s just an observation about reality, lower the barriers and girls will outpace boys in everything except video games because girls are hardwired to believe our survival depends on trying harder and boys are hardwired to believe theirs doesn’t.
Exhibit A: The entire animal kingdom but especially lions.
(I’m not a real sociologist, by the way, I just play one on the internet, amateur sociologists on the internet being more commonly referred to as “assholes”. I’m not a real biologist, either.)
Anyway, I don’t want to argue male/female anymore because it just upsets men and more than a few women and it’s all a grotesque generalization anyway and doesn’t pertain to individuals, who are as varied as individuals were meant to be.
And also, individuals are all that matter, aren’t we. I no more want to be characterized by my Conservative friend as a type of human being than he does (although, for what it’s worth, he seems to like being typecast as a Conservative friend – go figure, so maybe he isn’t the best example).
The short answer for me to the internet? I’m too reactive, too subjective, and have too big a chip on my shoulder to do anything other than add to the big ball of stupid being bounced back and forth.
There. Happy, h8ers? You win all the arguments now.
So no hard feelings, eh, but that book isn’t going to write itself. I’ll leave it to others to bounce the big ball of stupid back and forth while I try to come up with 30 stories about my drab and insipid life that won’t rot the eyes out of the head(s) of my reader(s).
And I’ll keep blogging because there’s nothing quite like blathering on pointlessly on the internet to make me feel like I’ve accomplished something during my unemployed day.
So ta ta for today then and maybe you’ll see me tomorrow, maybe I’ll be hard at it, making my dream come true.