And in her blog you see nothing

> Blogs allow us to present our best selves, give a picture > of ourselves and our lives that has maybe middling bearing > on reality. We don’t see the author’s failures except > as instances of overcoming and growth, and so ultimately > positive. We never get to see with each other’s mistakes.

Selves are sufficiently finicky about – if not obsessed with – their appearance to find a form of righteousness in relegating those revealing other than “100% positive, all the time” to an unacknowledged silent treatment penalty box from which there is no escape until enough of the holier-than-thou's somewhat simultaneously find self-beneficial reasons to seemingly repent.

But, of course, by then the possibility of trust is long gone.

> Meanwhile I’m just here, desperate for a sense of > identity that doesn’t involve my country of origin or > what sports team I follow.

What mostly comes to mind on this end includes notions like “thoughtful”, “well-written”, “worth reading”.

But I'm open to learning about your faintly-alleged horrible side as well. ;–)

> > The popularity of the confessional mode [of writing] > > testifies, of course, to the new narcissism…but > > the best work in this vein attempts, precisely through > > self-disclosure, to achieve a critical distance from the > > self and to gain insight into the historical forces…that > > have made the very concept of selfhood increasingly > > problematic. […] Even the best of the confessional > > writers walk a fine line between self-analysis and > > self-indulgence.


> All of this is just a weird dance where we're just watching > the changes in ourselves all within the present moment, > with time itself being a total illusion. And all of it > is entirely pointless and purposeless beyond just the > experience of life itself. We're just being, and flowing, > like through a beautiful song.

Sometimes with tangerine trees and marmalade skies, even.