A Message on Messages

Despite this pseudo-winter brought about by global warming, I feel like this page is a fresh, virginal snowfall. I need to make footprints.

Aside from the standard fare (IMs, Facebook comments, and half-assed finals), I haven't written in a long time. The passing of the holidays has left me with a number of creative outlets, renewed interest in those outlets, and absolutely no ability to just pick one and go with it for a while. And it's not like I haven't got anything to say, either.

I should probably address something for the sake of continuity: as of the last post, Nameless Boy had popped back up. He's since popped right back down again. Yes, he got another song and a half this time, but no poetry. The good part is, fiction or not, I've had the chance to see him for what he was, unencumbered by blinding desire or overwhelming need. My estimations of him (the pessimistic ones, anyway) were largely right on the money. This however does not mean he's an inhuman monster bent on destroying my well-being. I let him be that a year ago. I didn't let him this time.

I'm sure he'll pop up again sometime, and I'm sure it'll be really inconvenient, life-wise.

One of my least-favorite parts of the holiday season is the flurry of text messages I receive on Christmas. This year, I had a couple from my best friends, a couple from some not-so-best-friends, and a couple from guys with whom I've had... dalliances(?)* over the year. I knew the best friends meant well. I knew the dalliance guys used whatever mass-text option their phones allowed them, and that their messages were harmless. The not-so-best friend texts were the ones that made me beachball in my head for a few minutes.

Does one reply? Does one ignore such messages? As I saw it, a reply risked opening up communication channels that had, for whatever reason, been closed in the recent past. I then thought to myself, "...but, even if there's bad blood, or stagnant friendships, these are holiday messages that I was enough of an insensitive douchebag to ignore." I thought again. If there's bad blood or a stagnant friendship, that's a transparent shot across the bow to remind me of it.

A lot of messages went unanswered this year.

Which brings me to the subject of electronic social warfare. Mind you, not the same kind that happened earlier this year with a certain sea cow. I mean the passive aggressive kind. Seemingly innocuous text messages. Facebook notes that don't name names but leak subtext from every half-baked euphemism. Blogged ruminations on the life and times of people who feel like they've got some explaining to do.

Let me submit, possibly as an aside, that the evil MySpace (and, though I could go on about why it's not as evil, Facebook) is proof that not even a hundred million monkeys with typewriters could produce the works of Shakespeare.

My peers' New Years blog posts are usually my favorite. These are the ones that contain reflections on their major life events, celebrations of new romance (or, hell, celebrations of ended romance), realization of future ambitions, or anything that seemed like it'd be worth mentioning. Of course, this being the holiday season I finally figured out the sport that is competitive gift-giving, I completely and totally regard these posts as a proclamation of "Look at me, everyone!" I think it's quite funny.

One sentence, however, can be found in every single one I've seen so far. It goes along the lines of, "In 2006, I learned alot [sic] about my real friends and who they are." Granted, these sermons are entirely run-of-the-mill at any time of the year on any digital soapbox one can think of. New Years, however, brings them all out to play.

A note on digital soapboxes: The internet is public. What's more, social networking sites are designed so that users are easily (if not automatically) informed of when other users change their status, talk to someone, or go to the damn bathroom. Users know this, and take advantage of it. When someone issues a note saying, "well, I guess I know who my real friends are," they're really saying "you've pissed me off, you son of a bitch, and you know who you are, too," and they know that everyone will instantly know it's been said.

It all comes down to this, a call to writers, bloggers, and typewriter-equipped monkeys everywhere: Don't use automatic, passive methods to draw attention to yourself. Don't write the same, phony self-affirmations over and over again in an attempt to convince others that you've got yourself sorted. Don't resort to indirectness just because you want to say something unpleasant without sounding like a person who says unpleasant things on the internet. And please, please drop the internet shorthand. It's so 1998.

Write if you have something to say. Say it directly, and say it well.

I'm going to make serious efforts to enjoy this year.

(DB) out.

*I might be pushing the edge of literal meaning with this word. Go ahead. Call me filthy names.