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Today is a lazy day. Thunderstorms are predicted for the afternoon, but right now the sun is shining, and I'm sitting here in my pajama top, staring at nothing in particular on the Internet. When the roomie gets back from the grocery store, we'll eat lunch and read GoF. We're up to chapter twenty now.
My friends list, which had swollen to a prodigious 105, has seen quite the exodus of late-three in the last ten days. Whenever someone leaves, I always wonder why. Was it something I said or didn't, my proclivity for neglecting to comment on replies to my posts, my occasional lapses into wanky or overwrought emotional outbursts, or general disinterest on the part of the reader? It could be any or all of those things, I suppose. Human nature is never static, and the things one liked at sixteen aren't always the things one likes at twenty-seven. For example, from the ages of nine to twenty-one, I loved Cool Ranch Doritos to the tune of a bag a day. Now, I can't look at them without a greasy pang of nausea. I liked MTV once, too, but these days I'd rather watch ants bump uglies than listen to the inane patter of vapid, cud-chewing VJs.
I know why some left. Some deleted their LJs in fits of paranoia. Others got their ever-tight panties in a knot over something I wrote. Still others just found more interesting shows in the endless, boundless traveling carnival of the Internet. The former I miss; the latter I wish well. The middle? I could give a damn. I said what I said, and though I never said it with the intent to hurt or offend, I'll not recant solely for the sake of sparing feelings, not when I know the favor would not be returned.
Well, the roomie will be back soon, and the sweet narcosis of fic awaits, so I'll close before someone else ticks the "defriend" box in a high dudgeon and labels me a caustic, arrogant, melodramatic turd.
"Too late," comes the sardonic cry.
Isn't it always?
My friends list, which had swollen to a prodigious 105, has seen quite the exodus of late-three in the last ten days. Whenever someone leaves, I always wonder why. Was it something I said or didn't, my proclivity for neglecting to comment on replies to my posts, my occasional lapses into wanky or overwrought emotional outbursts, or general disinterest on the part of the reader? It could be any or all of those things, I suppose. Human nature is never static, and the things one liked at sixteen aren't always the things one likes at twenty-seven. For example, from the ages of nine to twenty-one, I loved Cool Ranch Doritos to the tune of a bag a day. Now, I can't look at them without a greasy pang of nausea. I liked MTV once, too, but these days I'd rather watch ants bump uglies than listen to the inane patter of vapid, cud-chewing VJs.
I know why some left. Some deleted their LJs in fits of paranoia. Others got their ever-tight panties in a knot over something I wrote. Still others just found more interesting shows in the endless, boundless traveling carnival of the Internet. The former I miss; the latter I wish well. The middle? I could give a damn. I said what I said, and though I never said it with the intent to hurt or offend, I'll not recant solely for the sake of sparing feelings, not when I know the favor would not be returned.
Well, the roomie will be back soon, and the sweet narcosis of fic awaits, so I'll close before someone else ticks the "defriend" box in a high dudgeon and labels me a caustic, arrogant, melodramatic turd.
"Too late," comes the sardonic cry.
Isn't it always?
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