I don’t make any goddamn sense. I don’t make any sense to myself, so I can only imagine how little sense I make to all you fishbowlers out there. That term is amusing me. I keep thinking of a bowler rolling a fishbowl down a lane.
I write anonymously. None of you really know who I am. A couple of you know my first name (hint: it’s not Gold) and I think one or two of you even know my last name, but otherwise, I am just a dopey looking fish. Blurp.
I have cultivated this anonymity for a few reasons. First, there are two Monsters out there who did horrible things to me in the past. One sexually abused me as a child, the other tried to kill me as an adult. They are still out there.
I’d like to tell you that I’m being overly cautious. I’d like to tell you that my anonymity is just a sign of paranoia, but sadly, that’s not the case. Every few years, each of them finds me and sends me an infuriating message. “Hi, how are you? We haven’t talked in a while. I hope you are well. I’m awesome. Look at how great my life is! By the way, I hadn’t planned on stalking you, but I know where you live. xoxo, Monster.”
We haven’t talked in a while because you tried to kill me, fled the state to escape charges, married a friend of mine and destroyed her life, too. Also, I have a fucking restraining order, you fucking halfwit sociopath. And you, you fucking pedophile scumbag, I hope you die slowly in a horribly painful sodomy accident with several angry rhinoceroses.
So, yeah, there’s that. I am terrified every time I post something a little too personal that they will be able to somehow figure out the secret identity of the Goldfish. I panic a bit every time I give away a location, event or some identifying experience. But, the internet is a pretty big place. The odds of them finding me are pretty slim. Here’s hoping it never happens. Fingers crossed.
The second reason I write anonymously is that I’m very shy. I know, you’re thinking, BULLSHIT! But it’s true! If I had to put my name and face on what I write, I probably wouldn’t write. At the least, I wouldn’t write the personal stuff that I write now.
Which brings me to the topic at hand: social media and my failure with it. Ha! I actually had a point! Fooled you!
Some of you lovely people out there have clicked “like” and “follow” on Twitfish and Facefish. Thank you so much. It’s very kind of you. I have let you down though. I am not the type of person to just wander on over to someone’s digital domain, sit down in a chair and put my feet up. Nor am I the type to put up catchy little sayings on my window hoping that someone will walk by, see the pith and follow it. I have hardly used either account to post anything that isn’t just “hey, there’s a new FOG post that you’ll probably see next time you’re on WP anyway.”
I very much suck at being social and social media has that dreaded word right there in the title. It gives me the hives.
That’s not to say that I’m not social, because I can be, under certain circumstances. If I’m with people I know, if the stars are aligned just so, if I actually feel social and if I have more than zero fucks to give, I can be the life of the party. That’s pretty rare though and it really only happens in real life, not virtually.
I’d hate to think how many times I have typed out a comment on Facebook, Twitter or even WordPress, then chickened right the fuck out and didn’t post it. I hate it when I do that. Most of the time, I make myself post it anyway.
When I said that I don’t make any sense, I meant that I have the guts to post some insanely personal shit here, yet leaving a comment on Facebook, Twitter or even WordPress is beyond scary. Hold me.
What the hell is the difference? I think it boils down to the fact that this is my corner of the net. You don’t have to read my stuff. Even though it’s in your reader, you can skip over it. There’s only one interaction: click on it or not. If you click on it, you come to me, into my home. The only other people who see it are welcome in my home, too. Social media is different. If I comment on your comment, all of your friends can see my comment in relation to your comment. They don’t have to come to my house to see it. It’s right there in your face… book.
In the tradition of introverted people everywhere, instead of taking a risk, I back away. I think I’m okay with that at long as I keep taking risks somewhere, like here, for example. Not all of us are destined to be Twitter stars. Honestly, I’m okay with that, too.