Like Air Leaking Out of a Tiny Balloon

The internet is a wonderland, full of nooks and crannies of buttery goodness.

And also some websites that I have put on month- and year-long timeouts. They're still on the internet and whatnot, I just can't go look at them. Because then I will observe the words/actions represented on said blogs, and have a little World Wide Web Rage Blackout. Which usually ends with me slowly regaining consciousness in a darkened room, my hands clenched around my PowerBook and one or more empty bags of Sea Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips scattered around me.

I may as well say this now, as I cruise past the halfway mark in my third month of daily blogging. Most people cannot post every day to their blog, or worse, post multiple times a day to their own blog, without some portion of mental illness. In my case, I think there's just a smidge of compulsion afoot, but nothing much worse than that. Many, many, many blogs, however, are nothing but a running list of People Who Piss The Blogger Off and Why They Should Be Shot.

(I don't need to name names. You know there are blogs like this. You know you've read them. Don't lie to me. I can smell the Sea Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips on your breath. It's okay. Don't be ashamed. You're among friends.)

Anyway, I have very few really unshakable addictions, but for sure, Blogs of the Mentally Disordered is one of them. So much so that I have to quarantine the links in a folder, label the folder "No! Kate! No!" and then bury it in a subdirectory in my bookmark file. Yes, yes, of course I could just delete the link, but that might lead to googling the blog to find it again. This way, I know right where the blog is, I'm just not reading it.

This is all 100% true, btw. I have such a folder, hidden in a subdirectory. No, I still won't tell you which blogs are on the list. Oh, all right, I'll give you one clue, but that's it. Ready? Tucker Max.

Most such blogs take a tone of deliberate confrontation, if they're not openly striving to produce outrage. At first, I find myself unconsciously forming counter arguments to disprove this or that half-assed observation. Then I start to compose a possible comment for posting. Once I realize what I'm doing, I quickly click away, only to spend the next hour or two still disturbed by what I've read.

In time, and with sufficient immersion in the New York Times, the memory fades, but only until the next time I'm bored and looking for something to pass the time, and next thing you know, I'm reading some lady's description of how she shivved a 16-year-old boy for talking on his cell phone in the Kinko's.

Look, I get my knickers in a twist in just this way, almost daily. For example, I don't believe in holding a table before I've ordered my food -- it's an official rule at some L.A. coffee houses, actually.

When I stroll back towards an open seat, only to see that someone has just snagged said seat while their friend (six people back from me in line) orders for them, I get fucking pissed. Yes, I said fucking pissed. I'm sorry, I know that's a swear, but it really roasts my beans.

But then I let it go, do my thing and get on with my life. I don't frickin' post about every single instance, every day, for my entire life. (Uh, wait, did I post about that Williams-Sonoma thing? I did, didn't I? Okay, but that's still just twice in the entire month of January. And I'm not posting pictures of erstwhile asshats on my website.)

Let's just take a minute to savor the rich irony of how this blog post, which started out being about blogs that are so relentlessly negative and fault-finding that I can't read them, has now turned into a relentlessly negative and fault-finding post about said blogs.

A more cautious or careful blogger would probably delete this entry and start over, but that's not how I roll. In fact, this is the only way I can keep posting every single day: By opening Blogger and typing for half an hour until once again, I seem to have produced a post. It's a daily exercise in dumping out my mental junk drawer, and helps me practice letting go of this non-helpful belief that everything I write has to be awesome.

And on that note: My cat Willa just farted in her sleep.

Good night! You've been a fantastic audience! We'll be here all week! Try the veal!