Tuesday, September 14, 2004

I know who you are, and you just annoy me

Sometimes I wonder why the fuck I bother with this blog at all.

Even though I dropped my therapist faster than George W. Bush running away from a library, keeping a "journal" has been beneficial to me. I sit down, and I write, and I answer comments, and it relaxes me. The writing is actually very cathartic for me. It helps me collect my thoughts and forces me to think about my actions.

But of course, someone had to fuck with me.

I don't read other blogs that much. In fact, the only reason I can keep up with my own is because I don't go to bed much before 2:30 am any night of the week. But every once in a while, I click on a few blogger friends to see what they are up to - quickly.

And I do mean quickly: If blog-reading were an olympic sport, they'd be testing me for steroids.

I'm hardly the first blogger to describe sex acts in detail. But almost since the very beginning, I'll read someone else's blog, someone who I'm pretty sure has been reading mine, and I'll see something familiar: A turn of phrase I used yesterday, a quote from my post of last week with one word changed, action being described in the present tense, like I am wont to do.

Until now, I have just blown it off. Let's be honest: If the guy has 2,000 hits, total, after 6 months of blogging, what is there to be pissed about? But if the blog is popular, and if entire concepts of mine are being stolen, well...

You might think blogging is easy for me, because I just come home and write down what I did that day. That is somewhat true, but my thoughts don't always make complete sense the first time I type them out: Often, I'm typing my first draft while whacking off to www.thehun.com, and I'll hit errant letters while wiping spoo from my keyboard. What I do takes time, and fine-tuning, and thought. The finished product is MINE.

In my recently-heightened state of maturity, I am capable of deep emotional connections. This blog is my creation, my child: My nine-foot-tall, green-skinned, flat-headed, bolt-necked child. Fuck with my child at your own peril, and mine.

There is a creepy sense of violation I feel when I am reading another blog, and things start sounding familiar, as if the author took my words, shook them up in a bag with a few of his own, then dumped them out again like Scrabble tiles.

You don't fucking fool me, asshole. I know who you are, and you nauseate me. You also confound me, because you don't NEED to do this.

So, if you are stealing from the Steverino, please complete the following steps, and I will promptly remove the pins from the genitalia of the voodoo doll resembling you that hangs in effigy from my monitor:

1. Stand in front of a mirror and repeat "Hi, I'm [state your name] and I am lower than the maggots that feed on 17-day-old, semi-digested food particles in homeless mens' beards" for 45 minutes straight.
2. Acknowledge what you did. Yeah, acknowledge it. Do it privately, if you want. Send me an email or IM me (thet1nmann on AOL IM, BTW). You don't even have to take the posts down. Just tell me what I already know.
3. If you are going to reprint me, FINE. Just credit me. I don't care if you quote me at length, or re-post my whole fucking blog entry. Just be clear about where you got it.

So much for getting caught up...