Please don’t read my blog

No, I don’t mean you. It’s OK for you to be reading it.

Unless you’re my mother. Or the boy who sits opposite me at work. Or – and here my heart skips a beat and not in a Mills & Boon way – The Pirate himself. Imagine that!

I didn’t think I was being stupid. The internet is, like, really huge. There was 112,000,000 blogs floating around in it in 2008, according to Technorati. I figured my self-indulgent ramblings would just get lost in the soup. I find the act of writing cathartic. I find the idea of people who know me reading what I’ve written – accepting that I have shared the link with some of my friends – quite horrifying.

And clearly all manner of bad things would happen if The Pirate did stumble across it. I think he’d recognise himself, what with me reproducing entire chunks of our conversations and our social life and my pet name for him and all.

But you know, I thought the chances of him reading it were pretty slim. He only uses the internet to look at s a l m o n  f i s h i n g forums and eBay. I’m safe. Until I look at my site stats and see that I’m getting a surprising amount of traffic from a fucking s a l m o n  f i s h i n g  forum. And this was before I’d written my entry about the disastrous f i s h i n g  trip. What are the chances, huh? How did a  f i s h e r m a n even pick up on my trust entry? What did HE search for? Oh god…

And then, if you search for ‘Does Sarah Jessica Parker drink coffee?’, I’m on the first page of Google. What if The Pirate ever wakes one morning with a burning desire to know about SJP’s hot beverage preferences? What if my mother does? And worst of all, what if my repeat mentions of The Pirate – and let’s face, I bang on and on and ON about him – somehow get me on Google’s first page of results for ‘The Pirate’, and that’s what he Googles. He knows I call him The Pirate. He knows I write. Oh fuck. There are waaaaaay too many Pirates in this paragraph…

These are the things that keep me awake at night. Fuck world hunger. SEO is where it’s at.

I originally set up this blog with two goals in mind: as a release for all the neurotic mental pressure in my head, and to learn how blogging works by doing. I have singularly failed at the latter. I can’t fully optimise it in case anyone finds it, I can’t share it properly… It’s like leaving my diary open on my bed.

But I don’t seem to be able to stop. Writing purges my mentalness. And writing here stops me sending mental emails to The Pirate.

But if by some awful twist of Google spider fate, you do happen to be reading this, Pirate Boy: Hi. Still want to come for dinner on Sunday…?


2 Comments on “Please don’t read my blog”

  1. The T says:

    yeesh….you capture me with your beautiful words…including the word pirate… alas dear girl there are those of us who live in the Caribbean who are real pirates…stock brokers by day, pirates on the weekends and certain nights….don’t believe me? Read my blog… real rogues exist…and yet we naviagate the waters looking for amazing girls… and we listen intently to your call…only to mean a pirate who isn’t really a pirate…argh…the agony…

    LOL…. live is amazing… live it with a real pirate… I’ve given you too much already….there’s a white rabbit and look…it’s going into the hole…


    • Tommy/T/Thomas (who are you today…?!), you flatter me. My words aren’t beautiful. I can do beautiful. I can measure the weight and the shape of my words, arrange them in sentences that flow and have rhythm, create elegant prose that’s anything but prosaic. But this blog? Ah, it’s a soul dump. Though I suppose there is beauty in the honesty, if repetitive, neurotic, raw craziness is beautiful.

      And I am alarmed that the word ‘Pirate’ acts as some kind of Bat Signal for reckless rogues from across the sea. I’m trying to hide online from the one who lives in the next county… But you’re not really a pirate either. I subscribe to your blog. You help old ladies in storms. Pirate? Pah. You’re all fakes.


      PS – I very enjoyed ‘She whispers, “I like to be dominated…”‘ Reminded me of my own fake pirate. (Firate?)

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