I really shouldn’t be allowed to operate a blog.

I think I’m a blog snob.

I know that it’s free to have a blog. I know that the only qualification you need to have a blog is a pair of opposable thumbs to make a username and a password. Wait – you don’t even need that – I know a couple of blogging dogs. They’re better bloggers than I am, actually. They don’t use sentence fragments at every possible opportunity. They don’t mention opposable thumbs in every single post. Their vocabulary is undoubtedly more…um, evolved (ha ha). They don’t laugh at their own puns. In fact, I think one of them has published a book.

And yet, having a blog makes me feel special.

If you’re feeling a sense of déjà vu right now, it’s probably because I have written a post like this before. It’s called ‘I like you, WordPress. I like you a lot.’ In that particular post, I whinged about having five followers and made a virtual puppy-dog face in the vague hope that something would come out of it. WordPress felt pity for this blogger who had apparently been driven to the edge of desperation, and as a result, Freshly Pressed me (that still sounds wrong). On a side note: I should probably clarify that the post in question was not shadow advertising. It’s a mere coincidence that I was Freshly Pressed for a post that hails WordPress as the giver of all good things and the beacon of light that dispels the darkness from my world of hopelessness and oblivion.

Moving on.

Now that I have sufficiently flaunted my Freshly Pressed badge in your face, I’ll come to the point. This post is not like its predecessor. That one hinted at my miserable narcissistic tendencies. This one openly flaunts my miserable narcissistic tendencies. So you can keep reading (unless you had already stopped reading when I began waving my Freshly Pressed badge in the air).

So why does having a blog make me feel special? Well, of course, it’s firstly because I have followers – the very word makes me think of hoards of people genuflecting (I can’t let the blogging dogs get ahead of me so I bought a dictionary) at the altar of my magnificence. But it’s also because having a blog makes me feel like a member of the elite. I personally know only three other people with blogs. And although anyone can have a blog, as I’ve ascertained above, the fact that I was actually allowed to have one makes me feel good. Different. Privileged. Not just another member of the motley crowd.

It’s alright if this is just limited to feeling good about myself. However, I’m ashamed to say I’m not a background blogger. I do my best to mention my blog in any appropriate scenario. It’s not obvious enough to make me seem like a prig – I don’t go around yelling, “Look at me! I’ve got a blog!” but it’s meant to send out subliminal messages to anyone who’s listening:

“Now that you mention it, I wrote something about that on MY BLOG the other day.”
“I was so happy yesterday because somebody new followed MY BLOG.”
“Do you have a blog? I MYself love to BLOG.”

Another thing I do when it comes to my blog, is behaving like a blog snob. It’s like intellectual snobbery, but with absolutely no valid reason to behave like a snob. When I have an argument with someone who doesn’t have a blog, I’m ashamed to say that the first thing that comes to mind is always, ‘Do you have a blog? Didn’t think so.’ I don’t say it, but the thought’s there in my head, hand in hand with another thought, ‘I have a blog. Therefore I am better than you.’ These thoughts cloud any rational arguments that I may have, and I’m left saying, quite limply, “I’m telling you, I’m right. I can’t explain exactly why I’m right, but be sure check my blog periodically – I’ll post an explanation when I can think of one.” Just a bit of advice: That doesn’t work. Especially not with your mother.

Sometimes, when somebody says something I don’t like, my first thought is, ‘I’m going to write about you on my blog.’ It’s a different matter that I don’t actually end up doing that. But the fact that I actually thought of it makes me devious.

Yes, the thug life did, in fact, choose me.

To conclude: I love having a blog. I love having followers. I love to walk around, knowing that I’m somehow superior to everyone else simply because I have a username and a password. I love that there is a platform on which I can be the intellectual equivalent of a dog with circumlocutional abilities.

And, WordPress, I will use this platform well, because with great power comes great responsibility.

P.S: A message to the guy who tried to trip me over today:
You’re fatuous. So there.


Please. Please stop drooling all over my stationery.

If I were shipwrecked on a desert island, with a dozen other people, and cannibalism was the only option left, I’d probably be eaten first.

And that’s because I don’t like to share.

You read that correctly. Yes, I am a horrible person. You’ll probably want to shield your impressionable children at this point, so I’ll give you a second to do that.

I really don’t like to share. Actually, I think I should probably say ‘lend’ rather than ‘share’. And I don’t mean money. Strangely, I’m fine with lending money. It’s the little stuff, like the pens and the books and the coconuts (in the case of the desert island) that I have trouble with.

On the desert island, I’d probably hide all the coconuts I collect in a little cove on the far side of the island, where nobody would ever find it. And then, when somebody asked me to lend them one of my coconuts, I’d say, “I don’t have any with me right now.” Technically, it wouldn’t be a lie. And anyway, the island would be filled with coconut trees, right? They can go get some for themselves.

I don’t know which is stranger: that I’ve got all my desert island excuses sorted out or that I’ll wouldn’t be able to find it in me to be charitable even when stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Moving on.

I don’t know why I have such a big problem with lending out my belongings to other people. And when I say ‘other people’, I mean anyone – even friends. The problem is that when I decide that something belongs to me, I become fiercely protective of it. I suspect this problem began when I was in kindergarten. I would hoard all the red building blocks in one corner of the classroom and then guard it with my life. In fact I vaguely remember some sort of situation in which I had taken the red building blocks hostage because my teacher had insisted that I share them with the others. Of course, it ended in tears (the teacher’s, not mine).

Earlier it was building blocks, and now it’s pens and books. I find my own feelings of protectiveness towards my pens bizarre. If the person to whom I lend my pen loses it, that’s okay – I can get another. They aren’t irreplaceable. But my mind refuses to accept this. It’s not that I don’t lend my pens to others who ask for it. I would seem too petty if I didn’t. But as I hand it over, my first thought is ‘Why don’t you just get your own? This isn’t the first time you’re asking for my pen.’ This is followed by a chain of equally nasty thoughts, as I closely observe them handling my pen:

‘Well done, Mr/Ms Butterfingers. You’ve just dropped it.’
‘Don’t look at me furtively. I saw you drop my pen.’
‘Stop. Chewing. The. Pen. Cap.’
‘There’s enough of your saliva on that for me to clone you.’
‘Pens are meant to write with. Don’t just stare at it. It’s not going to tell you the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything.’
‘You’ve dropped it again, genius. Opposable thumbs are wasted on you.’

At this point I storm over and ask them to give my pen back making some excuse like, ‘I just remembered, I need to write something and I don’t have another pen.’ Then I have to go home and sterilize my pen before I can chew on it myself (which I do a lot). All that trouble just because somebody’s got the memory of a goldfish and the salivary activity of a dog. Why me, God? Why me?

I’m very melodramatic when it comes to stationery.

Lending out books is even worse. I can keep an eye on people using my pen. But when I lend someone a book, they take it home, so there’s no telling what they might be doing with it. Maybe they’re reading it. On the other hand, maybe they’re bending the spine, dog-earing the pages, underlining sentences with a permanent marker, lining their cat’s basket with it or worshipping it as part of a black magic ritual. It might appear to be as good as new when they return it, but how can I be sure that Charles Dickens’ spirit isn’t lurking somewhere between the pages. How do I know that Oliver Twist won’t follow me around all day, asking me for more gruel? These thoughts torment me every minute until the book is returned in its original condition. And even then, I’m scared to open it.

I’ll end by admitting that there’s nothing I can do about people borrowing my things. This is going to continue as long as there are…well, things to borrow. I bet the caveman who discovered fire had a thousand other cavemen waiting at his cave step with sticks of wood. And I bet that the doomsday preppers will have a thousand unprepared people waiting at their doorsteps when the day finally comes. But there’s nothing any of us can do about it. So if you have a pathological fear of lending like me, just relax, and go eat some M&M’s.

But don’t ask me for the blue ones, because I don’t have any with me right now.