The Wind

The internets is often not my friend. This is mostly my fault, and something I am trying to change. It is because I turn to the internet any time I need something to talk to, to divulge my innermost secrets to, and as a result, I come up empty handed. The intenets may be a good listener, but it isn't very supportive. And it is constantly leading me into temptation. So I check every possible account I may have opened to see how the balance has changed, check to see if anyone is viewing photos I posted, check to see if anyone is reading this drivel I post on a semi-regular basis. I get kind of psycho about it. Sometimes I check it more than once a day. It seems I have nothing better to do with my time.

But sometimes I really don't know who to talk to. At least the internet doesn't judge me. Doesn't tell me what to do. Doesn't stop talking to me. It will always be there, whether I like it or not. So I willingly and happily expunge secrets of my hovering body, my nightmarish dreams, my doubts, fears, and paranoia. I bitch about people I like, people I don't like, and people I don't know. I talk about the three forbidden subjects of polite conversation: religion, politics, and money. I worry about my appearance, my age, my talent, my intelligence, my emotions, and so on. And the internet doesn't care. It keeps on like always. A rock that doesn't pay any attention to the wind.