Rashomon
◊ There is some initial discomfort when you hang out with people who blog. ("Is this gonna be documented? Does someone have a digicam stashed in their backpack that won't be pulled out until I'm drunk enough to think setting things on fire is a good idea? Will my hair look OK in the pictures?")
So far nobody's gotten compromising pictures of me, mostly because when I've had far too much to drink I tend to sit around looking feeble and seasick instead of taking off my clothes in public. So I guess I'm probably safe on that one.
Reading through my friends' blogs is like looking at the world through cheap 3-D glasses. My head feels weird and everything looks wrong, and every once in a while things pop out of the two-color murk that look like a badly photocopied version of something I might recognize.
It's not the play-by-play, but the omissions that get to me — the idea that bits of reality I participated in ended up on the cutting room floor. Whole chunks of time are omitted for the sake of the story or protection or laziness. It's strange being edited out of something you helped create.
Editing is inevitable. I understand it. I do it myself. Even these musings have been sanitized, for your protection and possibly my own.