My Hobby: Part One

Worrying is one of my many hobbies and something I feel gives me an interesting edge on my peers. I may not be able to accomplish a lot due to my paralyzing anxiety, but I am capable of obsessively examining every angle of every problem.

 


I also enjoy worrying about how mundane and superficial my worries are. Despite a carefully cultivated projection of joy and generosity, I can’t always stop myself from waking up in the middle of the night panting and sweating over whether or not I paid my credit card bill on time.

 

Today I read an interesting article about how to increase your blog traffic: http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2006/06/how_to_get_traf.html

 

Since this is one of my current big worries, I decided to be proactive and try some of the advice. I thought that using my hilarious observations I could easily write abut Google (#32 on the list). I decided that setting a reasonable goal would help the worry that sometimes feels like a prosthetic leg has been strapped to my hip and I’m required to use the third leg with complete grace and ease anytime I go out in public. So I sat down at my desk and started writing about Google.

 

Google changes their logo all the time- my brother pointed that out. Google somehow reads my emails and puts relevant ads on the sides- my paranoia pointed that out. What else. What else. Google changed the internet – er, well it was like the first um, god this is embarrassing because I watched this whole show called The Internet and it described exactly how Google really did something important.

 

Now I’m worrying. Is writing an essay about Google when I can’t hobble together three sentence that don’t sound like they were written by a chicken at a typewriter going to make me sound dumb? Or worse; will I sound like someone who thinks they’re of slightly above average intelligence but their SAT scores wouldn’t back them up.

 

Now I’ve worrying very much. Do I sound old for referencing the SAT’s? Do kids take that anymore? Do only old people refer to young people as kids? Does the tee-shirt I just bought with a silk screen of a fork look like I’m trying too hard? Will it end up in the back of my drawer with my too tight band shirts from Lollapalooza ’94?

 

Now I’m worrying very very very very much. How dare I give a shit about how my fork shirt will make me look when am so lucky to have been born in America in and am encouraged but not forced to vote in Democratic elections and not have to worry about dressing up anymore to go to my fine job?

 

I’m not writing anymore, but I am obsessing. It feels like a lot of work to fret this much. I should lie on my couch for a few minutes, maybe watch a couple of Simpson episodes to calm myself down. I wonder if there are pickles left in the fridge.

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