falling is fun 
right up until you hit the sidewalk 
— the prophet ani

Longtime readers will recall I started margarine a little less than nine years ago. It was just a low-key diary sort of thing, a chronicle of my running and life with Mo and observations of the demise of journalism and the Chocolate Frosty. Mostly, I write because writing is what I do. It’s not really important if anyone reads it.

I’m a shy person. I don’t do well in real life. I can’t make eye contact and on a good day can muster only the faintest of awkward sideways hugs. But the blog is my own little world. I can laugh and cry and tell secrets and write in iambic pentameter. I’m not sure what iambic pentameter is, but if I have the hankering, this is the place.

Over the years, I wondered what it would be like if people actually read what I wrote. I ventured onto social media and a joint where runners can post their blogs. More people were suckered in, I suppose. But what’s the point?

I increasingly realize that social media is evil. Facebook and Twitter don’t have our best interests at heart. They are devised to suck you into a dark hole as a way of making money and manipulating our minds. Which I suppose is good for them, but for the rest of us not so much.

And at the running blog site, I was just forcing people to read. What the hell is this, I could sense the community musing. That’s the thing about places like that. People aren’t reading because they want to; they’re reading because you’ve trapped them.

When I mentioned they could always find me here, there was much resistance. Too much work. Don’t have time to call up individual blogs.

And I realized: Maybe that’s a good thing.

Do I want to be part of a community with a billion people? Why would a card-carrying antisocial (the card is actually an Amazon gift certificate, but you get the idea) want to be part of a club that contains a billion people? Do I want an audience of people who can’t be bothered to make two clicks to a blog site?

When I first started margarine nine years ago, I had maybe five readers. Nine years of hilarity, heart-wrenching honesty and brilliant insights later, I have  maybe five readers. And that’s perfect.

If you’re here, it’s because you want to be. Or you got suckered in by a google search. Or maybe you really DO like margarine and feel tricked by the relative dearth of butter-related musings. Sorry.

Do I miss the peeps on Facebook and Twitter? Sure. Do I miss the constant political bombardment and manipulative efforts to drag me further into addiction? Not at all.