Oh god.


Horrible thought.


Blogs are the internet version of reality television shows. I am in a never-ending reality television show, all on my own accord. I am constructing this personal narrative of my life equipped with all the tools of editing, and broadcasting it to X number of strangers. Small and large moments of my life end up on the cutting room floor while whatever will make good copy remains intact (with a bit of commentary added in).

Egad.


Yeah, I know there are some differences, but at this moment it seems like there is enough in common for me to get worked up about it.

I hate reality tv shows.

This realization is not sitting well with me. I guess I shouldn't really even think about it, but for some reason it is sitting in my mind, making me think about blogs in general. I am sure there are people much more qualified than I am to talk about these sorts of things, but I still feel compelled to note that I find it quite curious, this whole process of publishing daily accounts of one's life online.


I also feel compelled to quote Jim, who posted this comment in a previous discussion about the partner's resistance to blogs:

Spouse thinks turn to autobiography is a response to existential dislocations of
technology and the changing terms of globalization and late capitalist
production. We no longer know who we are, and autobiography is an attempt to
figure it out, as it were. Autobiography is thus a means of forging a new
ontology. Blogo ergo sum, I guess. Now, given her analysis, which you can
probably guess I very much like, I haven't a clue why she doesn't want to read
or keep a blog herself. But there it is.

That is a much more balanced evaluation of the situation than the initial ewww that I thought after my mini (and dull) epiphany tonight, but I wonder how I can justify blogging now.

Now I am left with the question of whether this ongoing autobiography is a response or if it is a symptom.