cellini's Diaryland Diary


I don't have to read the messages right now

When we write something here, we send out a bottle on the sea hoping that it lands in the internet of 2002.

This is a piece of the old internet. The fun internet. The world where we are anonymous, and yet daring things can be written which mean something to a small audience of people who tune in to a particular website every week to see what is posted.

The internet was better 20 years ago. I feel so old just writing that. It is so obligatory that I write that last sentence.

Everything that anyone actually sees now on the internet is filtered through a handful of social media outlets. We are seen and judged by our family members and coworkers and neighbors and this changes how we present ourselves. There are real and immediate consequences, so everything has moved towards selling ourselves as products and brand ambassadors or at least subconsciously presenting ourselves that way.

Diaryland is a last skerry. An island of the old internet on which we just exist as people, telling our own story to anonymous readers.

They used to not be so anonymous. I met a few people from here who became very important to me. This was when we met people in person, even if they lived in other cities. Wonderful people. Melinda and Erin and Asit and others.

I stopped using Facebook a few years ago and now I don't know what is happening with any of those people, and hundreds of others. Fans and readers and random adds. I hear that Facebook is now a ghost town of boomers. I don't know where everyone has gone. How do people find and talk to each other now? Even in the 2000's, we used to call each other and say that a party is happening at so-and-so's house.

Now I just don't feel like I know anyone. I miss Melinda and everyone from this city and the people I knew all around the world. Where are they? How do people talk to each other now? I don't know.

I messaged Alex on Signal last night basically telling her that I feel like a year of my life has been wasted as Thanksgiving approaches, because I wanted her to be with me at Thanksgiving dinner. I wanted to feel proud that this beautiful woman whom I have loved for so long was with me. I am sick of being her fuck-buddy. I asked how much her monthly mortgage payment was, because she wants me to quickly replace her girlfriend and move in and enable her life.

She responded that this information is private. And then there are other messages that I honestly cannot face right now. I don't have to read them yet.

3:08 a.m. - 2022-11-22


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