Salty Saint is trapped. Only two short years ago her ignorance was bliss. But as is the way with ignorance, she was unaware of the bliss in which she reveled. And then she fell completely and utterly in love with a man. This man was all over The Internets. Interviews, photographs, songs. Salty Saint need only type his name into her work computer - she didn't even own a computer - and there were hundreds of links that led to information about her new love. Delighted, she rode the internet wave, surfed them all. She discovered his band's website which led her to his ex-girlfriend's website which led her to a marathon Google session. She could piece together her new love's past, all with the simple click of the mouse she clutched excitedly in her right hand. So much information! She had never met anyone with more than a resume posted on The Internets, wasn't the kind of girl to hang around message boards, didn't even know they existed. Yet here she was, reading the history of Rock Boy's band, his life, all through the eyes of music reporters and fans around the world. She fell further in love with the Rock Boy. The eloquent, scrappy, street boy with the exterior of a burlap sack and the heart of a poet. His words moved her to tears on several occasions. She gulped his very essence and marvelled that someone like him existed. He was her truest mate. He grew up in a tragic kaleidescope of fighting and no father and no money and anger. A deep thinker. A lover. A fighter. In his eyes, his big phantom eyes, she could see everything he ever was and would be. A boy, an angry young man, a musician, a husband, a father. In his eyes she could see her true self. The girl she knew she really was. So she moved with Rock Boy to the City of Dreams. Their City Of Dreams. Still, The Internets held no lure for her. She viewed that whirling vortex of information in much the same way she viewed video games. A waste of time. Oh, she wrote. She wrote stories and stored them in the draft section of her Yahoo! email account. Occasionally she sent them to friends and Rock Boy and her stories made them laugh. But she was more concerned with living life than writing about it. She wanted to walk the scarred streets, breathe in the corrupted air of New York City, let the neon lights of Times Square burn into her brain, the water from the East River lick her toes. Then one day Salty Saint's new husband Rock Boy showed her an article in the New York Times. It was about a girl. A girl who lived in New York City, worked at an advertising company but wanted to be a writer. Read this, he said. She's just like you. So Salty Saint read the article about a girl who started this thing called a blog. What's a blog, Salty Saint wanted to know? She found out soon enough. At work she logged onto the girl's blog - she still didn't own a computer - and she was amazed. This girl wrote about the very same things as Salty Saint. I do that! Salty Saint thought. I need to try this blogging thing. Instead of writing in her journal and typing stories into her Yahoo! account on her work lunch hour Salty Saint started her own blog. She was hoping it would be a place where her friends back home in Utah would log on and say hello. They didn't. They were too busy living their lives. But Salty Saint kept writing. Soon others found the blog and started reading. It was exciting for a lonely girl in the big city. A girl who found being married as startling as jumping into an icy mountain lake in the middle of winter. She was having trouble breathing and at times she felt like she was drowning. But through the blog she was relating to people all around the world. She was divulging her worst secrets and others were saying "me too!" But it quickly got ugly. She was online too much. She was reading other blogs and feeling tired of it all. Too much reality. Too many thoughts jumbling around in her head. She realized she started watching sitcoms excessively just to get away from all the reality. Too much information. She doesn't want to know all these things about people. Television, blogging, MySpace, YouTube, Flickr. It makes her head hurt to know so much. And yet, she is doing the same thing. Uploading photographs, video. But she only wanted to write. To be creative and keep a journal of her time in New York City and the first years of her marriage. Somehow she got sucked down into the quicksand of The Internet. Has she put too much information out there? She loves the emails she gets from women who relate. But others, the assholes - they don't deserve to know anything about her. Really, they don't. They just troll The Internets, looking for someone to hate on. She doesn't care what they say, truly she doesn't. Does she need to be handled with kid gloves? No. But Salty Saint doesn't want her blog to be about controversy. Some bloggers try to ignite controversy in the hope of garnering readers. She doesn't want that. Doesn't want every post to degenerate into idiocy because of a few retards. Does she want people to discuss what she writes about? Yes. Does she want to hear the stories of other people who share similar or dissimilar expperiences? Absoulutely. Does she want people to disagree and tell her that some things she writes aren't very well written or talk about how she could have written better? Sure. But under the guise of freedom of speech or some other such the-internet-is-a-public-place nonsense excuse they think justifies just being an asshole, they say and email terrible things. It makes her feel bad that people are that way. That they want to judge or hurt others in a seriously spiteful way. It reminds her of growing up among the giant, unblinking judgmental eye of the Mormon collective. Sure she has a comments section. Sure it's public territory and anyone is welcome to type whatever they want. But that doesn't give anyone the license to just be a fuckface. To say things to her they would never, ever say in person. So the blog isn't much fun for her anymore because she doesn't like reading some of the comments. Not because someone doesn't like her or like her writing or her photographs or what-the-fuck-ever. It's because Salty Saint knows she would NEVER judge someone who wrote honestly about their life. Even if she hated their guts she couldn't be bothered to tap out even a sentence on their behalf. Unless maybe they were like, eating children for breakfast or maybe molesting their neighbor's dog and posting the resulting photographs. Then maybe she might send off a shitty email but probably she'd just alert the authorities and not go back to the blog. So Salty Saint stopped enjoying her blog. Oh, she still writes - but she doesn't like to post much of it because she's afraid she's opening up the people she writes about to criticism - and they didn't ask for it. Salty Saint is tired of strangers using her words against her. She divulges that she's having a hard time finding a job so they make fun of her. Maybe she should lie and pretend like she's a fantastic gal about town like some other bloggers she knows. People that just make up fascinating personas so they sound fabulously cosmopolitan when they really sit at home, eyes glued to their computer monitor, endlessly adding MySpace friends and leaving mouse turd trails of shit comments on stranger's blogs. Salty Saint has begun to dread logging onto her blog because some of the people who comment are people she knows she'd never, ever be friends with. Who are the kind of people who make these sorts of comments on strangers blogs? She wonders. But deep down she knows. One time she made a rude comment on someone's message board. The place inside of Salty Saint where the rude comment was puked from was black and green and ugly and she felt terrible about it for weeks and ultimately contacted the person and apologized. Even now, nearly two years later that comment she left makes her ashamed. Even though she still doesn't like the person involved and that person ultimately proved her right, she is ashamed of what she did, so she can't imagine the insides of people who naturally tap out vitriol on a daily basis. Don't let it bother you, people say. Ignore them, they want you to respond. But it does bother her because her blog is her internet home and when you invite people over there should be a certain amount of respect - no, fuck respect - a certain amount of civility. But anonymity does strange things to people - it brings out their baser sides and there really is nothing more that can be said or done about it.