Why I Hate The Internet Revisited

This is going to be one of those things that says far more about me than it does about other people. Fair warning.

I know I'm not the smartest, funniest, wittiest, snappiest, etc. person on the planet. I am aware that I am, at this very moment, surrounded by people who are more gifted than I. People who write better, make better jokes, and can discuss social theory with more élan.

Now that I have thoroughly convinced you of my inadequacies, allow me to explain where I am coming from.

I got slammed for a comment I made today on a blog. I have always had an issue with being perceived as dumb or slow-witted. Maybe it's because I have always relied on my brains to get me through life. It is definitely important to me that people think I'm bright. I don't know why. Regardless of where it stems from, it is real and rearing its self-esteem destroying head, drooling uncertainty on my forehead.

Am I wallowing? Yes I am. Maybe I wouldn't be feeling so bad if it weren't for the fact that the fridge I stored my lunch in today is being cleaned out this weekend and the bitches are going to throw out a perfectly good piece of my tupperware. Or maybe it's because I can't seem to make myself take a chance of something that I really want. It has been a long time since I've spiraled down like this and it sucks the root. I've had enough therapy to recognize the signs of depression. I see these things happening and I can't be bothered to change anything. Oh sure, there will be short spurts of optimism and activity, but they don't last. I'll get angry and sad and want to throw things or kick things. Thankfully for my feet and my things, I don't do that anymore.

If you stuck around through that mess of self-pity, here's the reason I still hate the internet. It isn't significantly divergent from my original reason - I meet smart, funny, insightful, witty people and I feel like a three-year old on the high dive. I'm in the deep-end and I left the water wings at home. End pool analogy.

"Just go off-line!" you're saying. "If you're so fucking miserable, stop doing the thing that makes you miserable, asshole." I can't hide from every little thing that causes me to re-evaluate who I am. Plus, I need to learn not to base my sense of self-worth on what my fellow commenters think of me.

And Then What Happened?

There I was; close enough to smell, to touch (provided I vaulted two rows of chairs). The air caught in my lungs, my heart whomped against my ribcage like a mallet covered with a feather pillow. Love spread like a virus...

You'll forgive my hyperbole, I hope. After several days of nervous anticipation and wild fantasy, what happened? Big pile of bupkes. I got a face to go with the name, and I was pleased. Was it shallow of me to hope that the outside matched (what I knew of) the inside? After my lament about being wanted for my brains, probably.

It's all over and the lights come up. A choice needs to be made: stay or go? Could I overcome my twitchy nervousness and my inherent ability to say exactly the wrong thing and make my approach? Or would I pack up my complete ball-lessness and slink away with my metaphorical tail between my actual legs?

I attempted to linger. I made a phone call, smoked a cigarette, and I chatted briefly with the director. I meandered along the streets of Manayunk towards my car. What was I hoping for? For a voice to call my name (which I don't think he knows). For me to suddenly grow a elephantine set of 'nads? Guess what happened? None of that. I sadly slid into my car, disgusted with my inability to make an approach. And now I confess my lameness to you.

As a side note, I quite enjoyed the play and perhaps next time I won't fail so spectacularly.