such thing as love? Jo, are you even listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” I say, as I hop onto my band’s old Web site. It takes a few seconds to load, but I’m soon on the blog page, clicking around. My words are staring me right back in the face. My drunken, angry thoughts that were meant to be kept to myself are there on the screen, apparently there for all the world to see.
I was never particularly computer savvy, so when I wrote all of my deepest, darkest secrets on the blog, I just assumed that since the site wasn’t really active anymore, they’d just stay there for me, password protected. But in my vodka-tonic-induced haze, I must have somehow posted it so that anyone who hopped on the site could see it. “I’m just trying to figure out how I posted this stupid thing and how to unpost it. I didn’t mean for it to be public. Anyway, they’re the drunken ramblings of a lonely idiot who’s alone on Valentine’s Day.”
“‘I see couples,’” Chloe parrots back to me. “‘Everywhere I look, everywhere I go. Happy couples in love. The city’s just lousy with them. The only consolation I have when I see these lovesick puppies is that they are just mere moments from being as hopeless and angry as I am. They are one gold stiletto, one bottle of wine away from having their worlds cave in on them. From being buried alive in their own misery. Because I know something that they don’t yet know: It won’t last. It never does.’”
“Yes,” I say, still typing away furiously, trying to take down what I wrote. “Enough. I can read. But how did you even know that there was something new on there?”
“You linked to it on Facebook. And Twitter.”
“I don’t even know how to tweet,” I say.
“Apparently you do,” Chloe says. “Oh God, whatever you do, don’t check Instagram.”
“Why not?”
“No reason. Anyway, I also got an e-mail from your mailing list,” she said. “Remember how the blog was set up to e-mail your entire mailing list when a new post went up?”
I immediately sober up. What have I done?
“No,” I say, slowly backing away from my computer. “I did not remember that at all.”
What have I done?
What. Have. I. Done. This is not possible. This is just not possible.
My face heats up. Somehow in my Valentine’s Day–induced rage, I thought it would be a good idea to send this rant to everyone on the Lonely Hearts mailing list, Twitter feed, and Facebook page. Which means that the same messages that Chloe received were also sent to more than 2,500 people throughout the tristate area. In one fit of fury, I have completed humiliated myself, my friends, and, quite possibly, my family.
My only hope is that the e-mail gets caught in everyone’s spam filters since the site was set up such a long time ago.
All 2,500 spam filters.
And that no one checks Facebook. Or Twitter. Or, apparently, Instagram.
“My God, Jo, how drunk were you?”
“Very, I guess,” I say as I read more of what I wrote on the blog.
“My favorite part is where you start attacking the grandmothers,” Chloe says. “It has to be someone’s fault, right? Why not blame the grandmothers? Here we go: ‘All men suck. All men will lie to you and let you down. There is no such thing as a good man—only a man who is temporarily being nice to you because he wants you to have sex with him or to give him money. Grandmothers—I know what you’re thinking.’ She obviously hasn’t met my grandson. ‘But, no, this goes for you, too. Your grandsons suck. They lie. They are assholes. They cannot commit.’” Chloe laughs. “I love that part.”
“I didn’t mean to attack grandmothers,” I say.
“I posted a comment,” she says. I quickly click on the link for guest comments. This is going from bad to worse.
“‘Amen, sister’?” I say, skimming over Chloe’s entry quickly. “Since when do you say things like ‘Amen, sister’?”
“Isn’t that the problem with a blog?” Chloe
“I’m listening,” I say, as I hop onto my band’s old Web site. It takes a few seconds to load, but I’m soon on the blog page, clicking around. My words are staring me right back in the face. My drunken, angry thoughts that were meant to be kept to myself are there on the screen, apparently there for all the world to see.
I was never particularly computer savvy, so when I wrote all of my deepest, darkest secrets on the blog, I just assumed that since the site wasn’t really active anymore, they’d just stay there for me, password protected. But in my vodka-tonic-induced haze, I must have somehow posted it so that anyone who hopped on the site could see it. “I’m just trying to figure out how I posted this stupid thing and how to unpost it. I didn’t mean for it to be public. Anyway, they’re the drunken ramblings of a lonely idiot who’s alone on Valentine’s Day.”
“‘I see couples,’” Chloe parrots back to me. “‘Everywhere I look, everywhere I go. Happy couples in love. The city’s just lousy with them. The only consolation I have when I see these lovesick puppies is that they are just mere moments from being as hopeless and angry as I am. They are one gold stiletto, one bottle of wine away from having their worlds cave in on them. From being buried alive in their own misery. Because I know something that they don’t yet know: It won’t last. It never does.’”
“Yes,” I say, still typing away furiously, trying to take down what I wrote. “Enough. I can read. But how did you even know that there was something new on there?”
“You linked to it on Facebook. And Twitter.”
“I don’t even know how to tweet,” I say.
“Apparently you do,” Chloe says. “Oh God, whatever you do, don’t check Instagram.”
“Why not?”
“No reason. Anyway, I also got an e-mail from your mailing list,” she said. “Remember how the blog was set up to e-mail your entire mailing list when a new post went up?”
I immediately sober up. What have I done?
“No,” I say, slowly backing away from my computer. “I did not remember that at all.”
What have I done?
What. Have. I. Done. This is not possible. This is just not possible.
My face heats up. Somehow in my Valentine’s Day–induced rage, I thought it would be a good idea to send this rant to everyone on the Lonely Hearts mailing list, Twitter feed, and Facebook page. Which means that the same messages that Chloe received were also sent to more than 2,500 people throughout the tristate area. In one fit of fury, I have completed humiliated myself, my friends, and, quite possibly, my family.
My only hope is that the e-mail gets caught in everyone’s spam filters since the site was set up such a long time ago.
All 2,500 spam filters.
And that no one checks Facebook. Or Twitter. Or, apparently, Instagram.
“My God, Jo, how drunk were you?”
“Very, I guess,” I say as I read more of what I wrote on the blog.
“My favorite part is where you start attacking the grandmothers,” Chloe says. “It has to be someone’s fault, right? Why not blame the grandmothers? Here we go: ‘All men suck. All men will lie to you and let you down. There is no such thing as a good man—only a man who is temporarily being nice to you because he wants you to have sex with him or to give him money. Grandmothers—I know what you’re thinking.’ She obviously hasn’t met my grandson. ‘But, no, this goes for you, too. Your grandsons suck. They lie. They are assholes. They cannot commit.’” Chloe laughs. “I love that part.”
“I didn’t mean to attack grandmothers,” I say.
“I posted a comment,” she says. I quickly click on the link for guest comments. This is going from bad to worse.
“‘Amen, sister’?” I say, skimming over Chloe’s entry quickly. “Since when do you say things like ‘Amen, sister’?”
“Isn’t that the problem with a blog?” Chloe
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