I’m not talking nonsense, I’m talking nonsense.

or… Eric and the Agony of Drafting the Pithy Online Profile.

Maybe it's just me (in fact it probably is). Maybe it's just a manifestation of mental illness (likely). Maybe it's a contemporary manifestation of grade school identity issues (not those identity issues, silly).

I'm just not cut out to condense the entirety of my being into a single paragraph, unless by paragraph, you mean what amounts to a document the size of a modern encyclopedia, hacked into bits and pasted back together by a distracted orangutan. Maybe it's because I think, sometimes, I am the orangutan, and the world I perceive as the reality that shapes me, is in fact, a (post)modern encyclopedia. Already hacked into bits, it is. But I am certainly (and ceaselessly) attempting to paste it back together. Paragraph, indeed.

By the way, should you find yourself attempting to paste together an encyclopedia (modern or otherwise) that has been hacked to bits, may I encourage you to seek professional help (craft-y or otherwise). It worked for me. (Okay, it might work for me.) (Fine. It might work someday for me.) (Aaargh! Give it a rest, already.)

Where was I? Ah yes. The Curse of the Internet™is not, contrary to popular opinion, a disaggregation of society. And it isn't the trend of imbuing the reporter of important information with the same importance of the information they are reporting (or linking to) (or linking to a link to), as the print media would have us believe. Ironically, though, some of the most popular sites are merely link aggregators. How cool is that? Aggregation breading disaggregation.

No, the Curse of the Internet™ is that people who think far too much about things that the rest of the world thinks far too little about, are, in the course of any given day, required to concisely and eloquently define themselves in 255 letters or less… (or the aforementioned paragraph)… and it really messes up my day. I mean their day. Ahem.

Really, when else, besides responses to court summons or wedding vows, does one expend so much effort in selecting 255 characters?

Of course, I may have this all wrong. Maybe it's just taken me a while to catch on because I am The Last Person Under Forty Without A MySpace Account™. Maybe popular opinion is actually right. Maybe the internet really is about disaggregating society. And maybe MySpace is simply a) a means of breaking free of the 255 character limit when condensing the totality of one's existence; b) a manifestation of the modern internet paradigm that the links are more important that who or what you link to.

And this whole "friends list" thing. Where the hell was that when I was in grade school? Sure, there was a "friends list" at the schools I went to, but unlike the MySpace friends list of today, it was a list of *exclusion* rather than inclusion.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I wasn't on the "friends list" back then, and I sure as heck ain't on anyone's now. And yes, to answer the question my therapist will no doubt bring up at this point, I do realize I actually have to sign up for a MySpace page in order to be added to someone's friends list… and to that, I say, why is it always my fault?

Despite what I'm sure my therapist has already told you—and I KNOW he's told you EVERYTHING—I'm not half as paranoid as I sound. You see, people really are out to get me. I know this because every time I check my email, there are a ton of people who want me to buy viagra, pornography, and illegal downloads from them.

If the world already knows what I like to buy, why does it need to see a frickin' 255 letter profile?

I'm sorry, where was I? I blanked out there a minute—I was dreaming I heard a orangutan holding forth on the internet rather than pasting together the modern encyclopedia LIKE I TOLD HIM TO!

Ahem. Okay. Where was I? Ah yes. Profiles.

What kills me is the need for originality. How am I supposed to be original when all the good quotes have already been taken?

Most people, while aware of his work with the cabaret, remain unfamiliar that Voltaire maintained an ongoing commentary on the biographical tidbits that publishers would often include about an author.

Witty? "A witty saying proves nothing."

Lyrics? "Anything that is too stupid to be spoken is sung."

Misogynistic? "All the reasonings of men are not worth one sentiment of women."

Commentary? "As long as people believe in absurdities, they will continue to commit atrocities."

Kudos? "By appreciation, we make excellence in others our own property."

Proverb? "Is there anyone so wise as to learn by the experience of others?"

Political? "It is hard to free fools from the chains they revere."*
Romantic? "It is not love that should be depicted as blind, but self-love."

Quote? "The multitude of books is making us ignorant."

Sexy? "This self-love is the instrument of our preservation; it resembles the provision for the perpetuity of mankind: it is necessary, it is dear to us, it gives us pleasure, and we must conceal it."

Religious? "To believe in God is impossible, not to believe in Him is absurd."

Wisdom? "What most persons consider as virtue, after the age of forty is simply a loss of energy."

What to do, what to do. One thing is for certain: don't say anything that could be lumped into a topic Voltaire has explored. Yes, that's right. I am left with but one avenue to pursue for my brief profile. One I'm sadly far too unskilled in wielding, but one that is, strangely, successful even when it isn't. Unless it goes too far and begins to make sense. You guessed it, I'm not talking nonsense, I'm talking nonsense. I AM talking-nonsense. So, to answer the prompt, "Tell a little about yourself and what you do", I responded, finally:

"a man on a mission. a boy with a gun. a guy with a couple of cats and a mortgage trying to make some decent maps and preserve the secrets of the ancient mariners from which all civilization sprang."

My wife says it sums me up, but she wonders whether I consider her to be my *mission*, my *gun*, one of my *cats*, my *mortgage*, or one of the *secrets*… but is willing to overlook it if I have that sea-captain's phone number.