I was talking with my wife about blogs last night. We both came to a consensus: most blogs are people’s attempts to sell something–whatever the product may be, really the owners of these blogs are selling themselves. Most readers of blogs are well aware of the sales pitch thrown at them each time they visit. I will not lie and say I have no desire to sell the readers of “lostwhitemale” something. I am well aware I am attempting to create value for the blog that others will trade their wealth for–even if the only wealth invested is the time spent by someone reading my posts. Time is a valuable and scarce thing.
I will not attempt to lie by appealing to some greater moralistic code either. Just because I am acknowledging my greedy intentions makes me no better. But by me being honest with my audience, I hope to clear the air a bit of the slightly nauseating odor of desperation that follows blogs around.
I am selling you ideas constantly. Through my writings, I plead for value to be assigned. I am reaching for wealth.
My son is always collecting some new treasure to bring with him back into our house. I will come home from work and there, on the dining room table, laying on the floor in the living room, or sitting on the coffee table will be the collectable — maybe a stick resembling a gun (to him) or a box I attempted to throw away the other night. I will find the boy and ask him why his subjective treasure is in the house; he has no intelligible response besides “Because.” I explain, again, to him why the thing cannot be in the house and have him take it back outside. Skipping the confrontation and explanation with him and me simply taking the object and throwing it out the back sliding door, I have found, only leads to the thing migrating back into our home. My boy must reason “Why is my thing outside, I think it valuable, it must come back inside with me”, or something similar.
You don’t love me. You do not know when every word you say is as a screw drilled into my brain, when I am racked to my limit: being stretched till my skin tares. Now to save myself I must do something, my instinct fires at the base of my brain. Signals dance back and forth and chemicals eject with fury — I must do something, so I fight. I anger, I rage. You hold it against me when it was you who brought us here, knowingly, you brought us here. You don’t love me, why would you bring us here.
Writing saves me. When I write I am alone with what I am and nothing to judge, but trying to express what I want to say, dancing through my thoughts, touching this one, and feeling that one. The meaning of words hover. The structure of the composed lingers and longs to be played with: to be perfected. Where is this perfection? it teases and hides from the mind, but not so far away that its lingering smell is lost.
So, I am at a bit of a loss as to what to put on this home page. It will be easy for me to fill the other pages with content because I do a lot of roaming around the Intertubes. Which is good, maybe I wont feel like a total useless bum every time I waste hours of my life aimlessly wondering from site to site, maybe. I can now rationalize my surfing, “but I’m finding content for my blog.” Do people still say surfing as in “I am surfing the web”,
seems 90sish (look at that string of characters, 90sish, suppose it should be ninetiesish).
I am good at rationalizing things — negative attributes of my character, even though these attributes work toward my own detriment. I can rationalize most actions.
Actually, it has become quite easy for me all I have to do now is say I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel anything, so I do nothing.
Why, another blog?
Because it’s my blog, that’s why, damnit.
What do I plan to post on this blog? Pretty much anything I feel like:
- Stuff I find funny
- Stuff I find interesting
- Stuff I think about
This stuff is more for me than for you.
Of course, I am wanting others to see this stuff, or I wouldn’t be posting all of this in a blog.
Let me rephrase something a little: this stuff is more for me than for you, but I hope to add to your wealth, just as much as I gain from this stuff.
Well, I guess my cover is blown. I am not so cool that I don’t care if no one reads this stuff.
I am not above begging so shower upon me your attention and comments, validate me — please!
So, with my mission statement complete let us move into our exciting future together.
Who’s the Lost White Male? That would be me of course, your author. But, I am not so foolish to think I am the only lost white male in the world. In our society there are throngs of lost white males. This lost epidemic certainly is not limited to those of the Caucasian race. No, no, it would be racist to think only white males could be lost. I am only laying claim to being the lost white male that The Lost White Male makes reference to.
What is this lost epidemic I mentioned? I share in a overall and general mood of a lost sensation encompassing my consciousness. Vague? Maybe. But, that is part of being lost — a vague feeling floating about, never quite there, never fully materializing, and never diminishing. A type of call to action ever present, threatening to command.
I suspect this is all a product of my biology, my current state in life. After all, I am a biological being and all products from a biological being, are biological in source.