Scattered

Whenever I end up reading a poignant article someone else has written that generates many, many comments because it was well-thought-out, well-written, and well-publicized, I often end up thinking about writing some kind of incredible post of my own that’s going to not only garner attention, but actually change the world because it’s obviously that well-written, that witty, that un-ignorable. But instead of starting to write, I go over it in my head, over and over it, looking for all the flaws I can find, and pre-editing them before they’re even written, coming up with arguments against them so I can make sure I don’t fall into some humiliatingly simple trap of false logic which will enable all the /b/4chan and SomethingAwful trolls and other Social Media griefers to turn me into a laughing stock, purely because of my own ridiculous ignorance.

Trust me, it wouldn’t be that hard.

Of course, once I start opening up the counter-arguments, none of which have come to light because I haven’t written anything yet, I then slip a little further into my head, thinking up the specific imaginary comments I would get based on reactions to my incredible, striking, thought-provoking piece. From there, I am suddenly thinking up all my perfectly witty responses to the agreeable comments, and the scathingly superior responses to those subhuman rejects who would dare disagree. Then, after everything from Boingboing to Reddit to Cheezburger to Facebook had linked and loled and trolled and memed and the obvious guest appearances on 20/20 and Good Morning America and a token nod from Anonymous, I would emerge from an international flame war as The First Blogger to Win an Argument, Ever.

Of course, this would obviously be worthy of a Nobel prize, and I am given a trophy made of solid diamonds and platinum, and my MacBook is bronzed, and the resulting book tour and movie rights land me a place in history as The Most Clever Person With All the Lulz, and then about ten minutes later, I’m smiling to myself because in my head, it was such an accomplishment but I’m so wonderfully modest that I’ve moved on from the fame and paparazzi and am now content to work on perfecting my souffle technique, and I don’t even answer reporters’ questions about it anymore, all “I have my reasons, thank you,” mysterious and dark eyeshadow that I finally managed to learn how to wear without looking like I was punched in the eyes by wandering charcoal golems, and then I remember that I was supposed to walk the dog and dust-mop the floor and I close my Macbook and get up and by the time I go put on my left sneaker, I’ve forgotten the thread of what I was going to write, and by the time I put on my right sneaker, I’ve forgotten why I got up out of the chair, and the post that would have saved the world never gets written.

This is the reason behind one of three things: A need for a dog-walker, a need for a housecleaner, or a need to up my ADD medication — I’m just not sure which. Until I figure it out, you may find me wandering in circles, giggling quietly to myself, wearing only one sneaker.

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