Sunday, 13 March 2011

Sunday Confessional

The internet, it has been said, is a dangerous thing, because the presumed anonymity encourages people to confess to far more than they would in a face-to-face conversation. I was reading the Observer Magazine today about blogging horror stories, people who've lost jobs and relationships because of revealing too much online.

I found it interesting because I've never been a woman to keep secrets, online or in real life. I'll happily tell people I've known only a short time how many lovers I've had (five, but I've set myself seven as a goal, I just think it's a better number. Although I read an article once about how the eighth person you sleep with will be the one you go on to marry, so maybe I should try for that? I never did like even numbers though); about weird sexual experiences (I wouldn't say it was a "worst" experience, because I was arse over tit in love with the guy at the time, but I was slightly taken aback that he apparently favoured the Hollywood for himself, and he was a little overweight, so his stomach made this soft and vaguely discomforting slapping noise the whole way through); all about my insecurities about my appearance (my eyes are too small and my mouth is too big, red lipstick makes me look like a niche-market sex doll run amok, like a porn version of Mannequin) etc.

I'm always harbouring painfully unrequited crushes which last for years because I apparently find rejection or total emotional unavailability a turn-on; I get the feeling these sorts of things are supposed to be secret but my friends get sick of hearing about it because I can tell everyone about my feelings except the person that inspires them, although I'm sure they most end up knowing because I've told so many other people, and because I blush every time they so much look at me.

It's strange, I've always envied Kate Moss, not only for her looks, her career and her life, but also for the fact that she is a global icon whose name everybody knows, yet no one knows very much about her. It's not that she's secretive, but she somehow never gives much of herself away, so half the continued fascination with her is because she's so totally unknowable. I'm the opposite of that - I want people to like me, but I go about achieving it by giving too much of myself away, which ironically probably makes people think I'm a weirdo who embarrasses them by saying completely inappropriate things.

Actually I retract that slightly, I *am* over-eager to please, in all situations (I have about a dozen good bye cards from various temping jobs that say "thanks for making all the tea!" or some variation thereof), but for all my crippling shyness, I'm just not a particularly reserved person - sex is a valid and entertaining topic of conversation, in my opinion, and I quite like making tea. I can't fucking stand small-talk; I've almost been thrown out of cabs for taking the conversation from "terrible weather we're having" to "I can't believe you voted for him, you fascist cunt" in three easy minutes.

In a way, I don't think the online scare stories apply to me; I don't link my blog to my Twitter, though I do link to my blog on Twitter. My username would identify me to my friends but not really to anyone who didn't know me, but I do use real photographs of myself and I imagine it probably wouldn't be that hard to track me down if you really wanted to. On Facebook it's easy to think you're only posting to friends, but like anyone I have acquaintances and work colleagues as "friends". Largely I think they're not interested enough in my life to bother reading my self-involved streams of conciousness, but maybe I *should* watch my mouth.

So the question is, do I reveal too much, too easily? It'd be interesting to see how much of this was left if I subjected it to outside editing.

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