Battling self consciousness, and other double edged swords

It's here, finally. The slightly vain-glorious, but needling feeling that who you don't want to read is reading, and the people you'd rather tell something in person, will already know what you're talking about. Long live RSS.

The first one is much worse -- the who you don't want to read is reading bit. Flattering, but unnerving. Also occasionally intrusive, not to mention plain voyeuristic. Unless of course, a taken-to-heart-fondness for my lovely template and the header I refuse to change just yet is the root. Which it isn't, because voyeurs are we, bloggers is us. We apparently can't help prying. Taking my own matters in my lovely hands, I've decided to unsubscribe from a lot of the crap blogs one reads as sheer habit. Mundane is OK, but excessive is wrong, and so initiative dictates that out they go. Hear the jangle of trash cans, baby.

No seriously, reading trash blogs is like watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S -- out of habit. It isn't a particularly funny sit com, we're just so bloody used to the six twits. And the six twits at least endear. So their honest to goodness equivalents on blogspot stay. I guess. But thats about it. Down with clutter is good Karma, and helps you appreciate the undiluted brilliance of Seinfeld.

I'm confusing issues. I'm also digressing, but to lift from my friend's blog, this is my space, I breathe here. Now see, she -- Mayo, I will continue to read, because I have a vested interest in her life, and I'm just lucky that she writes well. If she weren't a good writer, I'd still plough through the crap, but that's what friends are for, blogspot or no blogspot.

Vardhan's another one. Inhibited typer, but I'd value his criticism more than most. So I read. I read on, and scroll, further faster and fastest, skip through paras but I get the post browsed through. Fraanship rocks. He comes over to have coffee with me at home and gives me a dressing down about the shit I've started to churn out!! "Doesn't the standard make you conscious??!!" I yelped off my chair, I did.

And friend wise, one of my favourite of favouritest HUMAN BEINGS AT LARGE picked up the blogging habit. He called himself a brown cow, or Monty Python, or something or the other. Well, whatever it was, 'definitely enough to warrant a demented following, and I do so love being tagged.

But that's about the people -- nay, the friends who blog. Probably a few left out but the others are bloggers who one is merely acquainted with. Fine difference, and it needn't be blurred. And more importantly, needn't be read. No vested interest, no want to be voyeur, not terribly appreciative of writing skills either.

I was beginning to gather my excuses -- to same Vardhan fella, still over coffee: I can't ya. Not when so and so reads. How personal do you want me to get? Why the fuck should said so and so know; all my excuses and other petty sounding drivel. Not the person one aspires to be!

If it were all that personal a blog, and I had an ounce of bloggerly writerly integrity, I might want to mention say, for instance -- and I bide my time in making it sound more casual than it feels -- the new boyfriend who I won't blog about because my old boyfriend will read it and be hurt. Which then means I can't write about ANYTHING to do with new hot deep voiced chivalrous musician in question, because not that he would have a problem -- haven't asked, frankly, doesn't matter either. The issue is me, as is the rant.

Flipping which, when blogging about other stupidities, I'd have to shut up mid sentence, because with "Yea yea, I read" tossed at me, I feel my job to dissipate rubbish facts of my life is done, before I say it is. What ever happened to repeating conversations that were fun the first time around? To flogging dead animal tales, and re enacting? To re animating, adding mirch masala, and bring in heftier doses of fervour to enthrall a very cultivated audience?

It's stifling, yet brought on entirely by the keystroke-happy blogger being that in my case is, well, me.