Story of a Blogger

Against his better judgment, he created a blog in his own name. His daily, personal thoughts were now a Google search away from the entire world. Literally, anyone from a knitting grandmother in Osaka to a naked bus driver in Paraguay to a highly-literate chimp in a computer lab in South Dakota could suck on a direct feedline to his brain, could know him right down to the most insidious insecurity in mere nanoseconds. His subjectivity had been voluntarily been offered up to the world, a possibly indifferent world, and the vultures gnawed at his bones day and night. Then one day, a talent scout, an agent, an editor of Highest Regard contacted our young blogger and offered him an even larger spotlight. Not only now would his deepest subjectivities be potentially known by the world, but mountains of monetary might would now be supporting him, buying his mochas and paying for his web hosting service, getting him linked to by Slate and Suck and Feed and Technorati and a million other completely virtual filaments of human imagination and a bit of code. That's what holds up the Blogosphere, after all: a bit of creative self-deception ("people read my blog!" "what I'm writing matters!" "there's no way the government will use this against me!" "my time is best spent posting quotes about HP Lovecraft!") and some code. Code....

His subjectivity, his brain, his mind, his experience, his Self, displayed to the world with the aid of numbers and programmed routines. Subtle-realm robots exposing his insides, info-devices eviscerating him for an audience of millions. He has willingly submitted to these code-contraptions, he stands now in the gladiator arena, naked but for a belt with a Blogger belt buckle, spitting at those who even care. "My subjectivity is shit!" he declares, "go ahead, have these opinions, takes these memories, keep these sequences of URLs and these collections of topical quotes!"

And with that, a mountain lion sprang from the depths of the ampitheatre and bit his head off.