Tantrums of the Inner Child

Most of my ideas these days seem to come from reading other people's blogs. Am I really sad?

LJ's hysterically funny Single and Fabulous depicts the ups and downs of agency dating and this latest article bewails (not infrequent, that,) the standard of options, responses and male expectations.

I quote:

Speaking of mediocre, yesterday I received the following response to my Match ad:

"Seems like we have alot in common!! Don't have time to write just now, but please check out my profile, and hope to hear from you soon!"

That's what I like to call a "drive-by." This does not bode well for future communication. It says to me, "I can't think of an engaging first contact, so I'll just wing it."

Don't get me wrong, my own first impression was "woah, big head!" as I imagined a conceited guy winking and worse, making that little shooting action with his index finger, or clicking with his teeth. This was, after all, blatantly designed to turn the tables. It said "I might be interested, but lets pretend you found my ad, not the other way round, and you do the running."

However there could be a million other reasons for being so curt; maybe he's dyslexic and felt a short note was his best first impression (bright, observant and multi-taskers they are, I wouldn't call that a problem) , or maybe (and this is too close to home for comfort), just possibly he is hopeful but terrified, really wants to be noticed but has taken a few knocks and needs reassurance that she isnt already wetting herself with derisory laughter, before daring to be a little more open.

Lets be honest, the reason that is 'close to home' is the same for most of the blogging community. Blogs arent just diaries, they are not letters to the editor, they are personal opinions waiting and wanting to be noticed. All of us compare ourselves to bloggers who get more comments, higher visitor stats, or (creme de la creme) positive criticism from newspapers and printed journals. But how many of us, whilst occasionally dreaming the dream, are slamming out padded envelopes full of double spaced blog entries to publishers and critics? Cooee! Anyone? No, thought not.

A tiny, childish and childishy LOUD part of me is here in the blogging world waiting to be noticed, the five year old wannabe-princess that is kicking my subconscious with her sharp little school shoes and generally doing a Violet Elizabeth (or, if you prefer, Angelica; I mean spot the difference), that wants to be famous, worshipped, adored and most of all paid just for spewing forth my obviously indispensible and world-changing point of view. On the other hand, looking at the quality that surrounds me I would need a surgical reality-bypass to find the conceit to do more than hope. Wilma Wallflower, that's me.

I'm not obsessive, the skeletons in my closet have been compacted and shoeboxed and don't cause me pain or give me any urge to educate people and I am not a 'radical journalist' and by radical I mean someone who scans other people's paid work and then blogs about it with some fiery and passionate personal opinion thrown in. I don't wave flags, although I have been known to turn them round and stab people with the pole.

We are a strange breed. Maybe I am stranger than most but hey, who wants to be normal? Puke.