The procrastination continues apace. Although I have started my grading. I figure I'll give it another hour before pitching the work over in favor of my big fat bed.

Of course this means I'll be setting the alarm for 5 am. Irk.

I just took a bath. A bath. I hate baths. Baths are one of the most boring activities in the entire world to me. What is one supposed to do in a bath anyway? Sit in hot water. Yippee. I have never been able to figure out how to read and drink cool drinks in the tub, either. It always sounds so great when Bathsheba talks about her marathon baths. But I get everything all sloshy and messy and I'm terribly uncoordinated and it really just doesn't work for me. But tonight, I thought, I'm tired of being dirty. I need to grade. Of course! Take a bath! Grade in the tub! Never fear, I did not grade in the tub. No sloshy student papers.

I spent the time, instead, considering diaries. Specifically these online diaries. I've noticed that those who've been around a long time--weathered many a social or psychic storm (often induced by this medium), sometimes develop this curt defensive tone--or maybe that's too strong--it's more an overwhelming sense of their audience. I find it creeping (oh good lord--sometimes it positively gallops) into my diary here (remember when I flipped out and almost password protected?) The more I find evidence that people actually read this, the more inwardly secretive and outwardly social I get--especially if those reading know me outside of the computer. Freaks me out. But of course, having people read this is the whole point. It's my form of communion or communism or community or communication or...something. A way of not being so terribly alone. But in so doing, I, we, leave ourselves vulnerable to attack. I got hit a couple of weeks ago--someone quoted some things I said here in a rather nasty way and I was, hmm, shall we say, a touch devastated?

I'm pretty good at shaking off insults from people I don't care about, don't know, or people whom I find generally insulting. Those insults, they got nothing to do with me. The few people who do really matter to me are not in the habit of making feel bad about myself, so, generally all insults getting through to me brain are pretty much self-directed. (Which is not a nice way to live and makes me think of something Frances once wrote--I'll try to find the link later. It's good solid right on thinking)

So why did I get so hurt and weepy when someone I did not know insulted the me I show in this diary? I think the answer's terribly obvious, but it took me a bit to figure it out--I leave myself far more vulnerable here than I do in my waking life. I trust, somehow, that people reading this will take care.

Here's the part where I do a wee bit of growing up: I don't care anymore. It's still not about me, those insults. Still got nothing to do with me or mine.

Damn, it's getting late. I forget why I'm writing this. Maybe to say, I've got to remember to keep this small. Don't get too hard, too chatty, too clever, too public, too meta. Keep it small and tell the truth.