Monday, January 07, 2008
Blame it on Chris Hansen or maybe it's just truth defined, but webcam self-portraits just scream "internet predator" to me. Or "internet prey". The end.
Sure, by now I should be used to webcam photos, right? I should. With teleconferencing and other work things like that, I should be mature enough by now to realize that webcams are a good thing initially developed to be a new and better technological innovation -- a great solution, y'know -- it's the Jetson's telephone. And over the last few years, I've tried to reprogram my senses to accept this digital medium and format, without hesitation. But when I run across those dimly-lit or over-exposed arm-length stills of someone basking in the glow of a big, boxy, out-dated computer monitor, innocent or not, I just can't just handle it.
It's that feeling you get when you realize a bug just crawled across your bare foot. In the dark. Like a big part of me inside just shrinks away like a slug recoiling from that burn of everyday table salt. Just about all webcam photos make my teeth hurt. Sure, I'm weird. I snicker in embarrassment every time I hear the word "pickle" or the dreaded "d-word" that I won't, I can't even type here. But webcams just freak me out on another level.
So then, why am I getting a webcam? Besides the obvious reason of making extra cash while sitting around online in my underwear?
Wait. That's not true. One more try...
Besides the obvious reason of making extra cash while sitting around online in somebody else's underwear?
Again, this one goes out to my aunt -- "I promise I am just joking."
For one reason, to talk to a friend in Florida. Actually, besides the fun of a positive behavior modification experiment, that's probably the only reason. Which translates into "because some days, I'm just too lazy to type instead." On the bright side and in the end, this will benefit everyone involved since the Sicilian in me uses her hands to talk too fast, and she's mostly talking the sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Pickle. The D-word. Webcam.
What's my point? What, should I get over being freaked out by webcams? Why not, fifteen years after the fact. But my disclaimer is: So shall it be written, so shall it be done*, henceforth from the day of installation, this is all Orlando Scott's fault.
This one is malignantly cute and benignly scary at the same time. So maybe that's what I'm going for. Or, maybe I should just knit something useful instead and forget this aversion-reversal experiment thought ever happened.
Nah, as usual, ease wins over action. Ordering something interesting, easier than not.
Don't worry, my radical new technological addition won't affect many of you. I won't post any excruciating green-glowing self-portraits unless they are funny, I promise. I do fall off my Pilates ball chair a lot. See, already the webcam and Pilates ball have just paid for themselves that self-deprecating image alone.
But sorry, I have no ferrets to show you. I'm not that kind of weird.
*No, I have not grown a long, strokey-beard to match my sage-like, elder wisdom. Yet. But if I do, at least I'll be able to show you.