Moby in SuperCat mode.
I left my robe on my chair this morning.
Advantage was taken.
The one favor that cannot be requested, although probably not the only one, but the only one coming to mind at the moment, is "Will you be my friend?" The networking sites that send "friend" requests, and verb the noun, are doing more than playing with English. English loves to be manipulated, and although "befriend" seems to me a better word, I can't in good conscience object to gaming this rapacious and flexible language. It's the whiny pleading behind "friending" that evokes a kindergarden revulsion in me. The adding up, and counting how many friends, rather than the strength and depth of the friendship.
There was a little girl, you see. She walked the same way home, a bit further down the street from me. And she would call out to me "Will you be my friend? Will you be my friend?" And I wanted to run and hide. I had no other friends, but still was not so desperate as to want her. Instinctively, I drew back, since she didn't want to get to know me, she wanted me to like her. Rather like aunts who grabbed at me, or uncles who swung me up onto their knee without checking for my consent. I distrusted them afterward, and their urgent desire for my affection would be frustrated.
I've been reading Introvert Power, and although some of it is off base for me, I do need time alone. Especially after a lot of interaction. Time to think and digest. When there is no quiet place, I get unsettled. Grade school lunch time, after eating, we were required to go outside, whatever the weather. I would find a place to nestle, near a wall, away from all the noise. And be unmercifully teased. I let it go on behind me, because I needed to turn my head away. Shivering and miserable, but the world shut out, often with the help of a book, my only balm.
I've often been accused of being rude, because I don't appreciate intrusion and interruption.
There have been comments, which you probably have not seen, because I have simply deleted them, over the last few months. People who come to comment only to ask us to come to their site. Mostly not commercial phishing, but coat tuggers, wheedling for us to "come be my friend/read my blog." They are welcome to try again, leave a thoughtful note without a link (we can go to their site from their name, anyway.) If you have to ask, insist or force, then the answer is no. A yes would not be real friendship, after all.
Moby never begged for our love. He earned it, as we earned his.
12 comments:
"coat-tuggers" leapt out at me. I love the perfectly apt word.
"...she didn't want to get to know me, she wanted me to like her"
You've put your finger right on the discomfort I've felt with these kinds of requests. I tend to react with a degree of suspicion to comments that appear from nowhere, full of praise for a blog post and accompanied by an invitation to visit the commenter's blog. Surely it's enough to leave a comment — as a rule, if a new commenter appears, I'll visit at least out of curiosity, but the wheedling acts as a disincentive.
I enjoyed reading this piece. It is how I feel often. I did have somebody who left lots of really nice comments in a blog. Then they went and deleted them all, because they said I was not who they thought. I deleted the blog and restarted it - but that is not an invitation - honest! She thought I was a lonely old man and said endearing things to me until she found I was only 52. Only!!! lol
blog etiquette is still a mystery to me! My family is from the north of England where we are famous for being rude and undiplomatic. I prefer to think of myself as honest and sincere ...
I wrote my site on this (o), please visit.
It would be interesting if those 'networking sites' also had a depth of friendship tracker, though how that would work is beyond me.
(O)
:)
ER,
Sometimes the good ones just jump out, don't they?
pete,
yup.
60,
That's just... odd. In a rather offensive way.
Rosie,
You are always welcome.
Pacian,
Heh. heheheh.
Phil,
Interesting idea, but as you suggest, probably unworkable.
Crow,
(Q)
Very thoughtful stuff, now that I've finally read this properly. My problem with reading this properly before, is that I kept going back to that first picture of Moby, which is just gorgeous.
I do find that I behave along precisely the same principles, blogwise, as I do in "real life." Which is not a great surprise - it's just that the nuances are subtly different.
An uncomfortable moment here, as I searched myself for the time when I might have been a will-you-be-my-friender. Poking around the nooks and crannies of early childhood and ah, yes! A new kid in the Kindergarten who had only just learned enough German to say:
kann ich mittspielen?
But actually, "may I join in the game/play alongside (with) you?" is another request entirely, expressing a wish to be engaged, partake in the creation.
So, a reprieve.
trousers,
Thanks, he just looked so snuggled and stretched.
RtheS,
Can I play? is an entirely different question, especially outside one's own language. And as far as I'm concerned, yes, and welcome.
I really love your purple bathrobe.
I don't like those kind of comments either. they may not be directly commercial or whatever but I still feel they're rather trying to sell something.
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