wine and cheap perfume

New York can suck it...and I don't mean the city. I mean the magazine. Who read last week's cover story? It's all about shamelessness, how one of the defining criterions for our generation is our offensively revelatory nature, our complete and utter lack of "shame;" between myspace, youtube, livejournal, and blogs, we air all of our dirty laundry and generally maneuver through this world like vulgarian louts, devoid of any hint mystique or class. This has, in a sense, made me exquisitely self-conscious about the fact that I blog like a motherfucker. My reasoning has always been as follows: no one cares. No one, save for my three or four close friends. They're the ones who do the reading. no one else cares. People tend to try and pigeonhole bloggers and the like as being extremely narcissistic, but I beg to differ.
'Who cares that your gyno sketched a pic of your crotch with a golf pencil?' you may argue. 'Who cares that you have a leak in your ceiling, that your dog looks cute in a hooded sweatshirt, or that you dreamt you were a vulture?'
I'll tell you again--for emphasis--who cares: your friends. your adopted family. The people whom you cherish in the most sacred way, cause you know they'll always be there for you because they always have been.
In this day and age, most of us spend more time on our computers than we do with our loved ones. This is true for me, at least. Which is why I love the fact that I can see what J's been up to, how M's been doing, by simply entering their blog url in my wifey's cavernous address bar and reading to my contact-starved heart's content. I think the same thing goes for me and mine. Something is better than nothing, and sometimes something's all you've got.