Don't Cry For Me, North Lima, Ohio

Many thanks to K for telling me how to install a site meter. Now I can view the demographics of the goofus musings “audience.” Where is Santa Fe, TN, anyway?

Really, I probably shouldn’t have added this feature, as it only feeds my communication obsession-compulsion. The DSM-IV defines “obsessions” as “persistent ideas, thoughts, impulses, or images that are experienced as intrusive and inappropriate and that cause marked anxiety or distress.” The comorbid compulsions (love that comorbidity!) are “repetitive behaviors or mental acts the goal of which is to prevent or reduce anxiety or distress, not to provide pleasure or gratification.”

So, here’s what happened yesterday: I stationed myself in front of Triton for half an hour, reorganizing MP3s ’til Friend showed up (obsession). Then, when he appeared, I spent two hours exchanging messages with him (compulsion!). Two hours. Did I get “pleasure or gratification”? Well, maybe a little. But mostly I fretted about how long he’d stay on Triton before slamming the e-door. Psychologist, heal thyself.

(I realize this episode is of no cosmic importance, but since you’re my friends from Chicago, Austin, and Boston, I hope you’ll indulge me. Person from Herndon, Virginia, please feel free to navigate elsewhere.)

If I were a psychodynamic theorist, I’d look to my childhood for signs of imminent e-OCD. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I have no memory of playing “Barbie Waits By the Phone.” No way were my Barbies holding out for Ken’s “What’s up?” Not with so many parties to attend, hairdos to achieve, cheerleading practices to coordinate. Psychodynamically speaking, I should be crimping my bangs or clutching pom poms.

I’d rather take the empiricist perspective. It’s not in my nature to obsess and compel - technology has nurtured my pathology. Ten years ago, I prayed nightly for a phone call from my teen crush, apparently in great detail (journal 5/18/95: I wish that X would call at 8:15 during a ‘Seinfeld’ commercial tonight and say ‘You don’t know how hard it is for me to call and ask this, but do you want to go out Saturday night?’). I can only imagine that at 8:16, I returned to Jerry and the gang, saving my next religious request for Friday-night ‘Pop-Up Video.’

Ah, 2006. So many ways to “reach out and touch,“ then pull back a bloody, heartbroken stump. At 8:15 tonight, Friend did not call. Or instant message. Or text message. Or email. Or look at my Friendster profile. Or, as I’ve discovered, navigate to this site (unless he’s in Herndon). W., grab my psychosis meds. I know you’re reading.

Instead of seeking professional help, I’m going to attempt cold-turkey withdrawal. I’m turning my cell phone off. Shutting down email. Logging out of Triton. Until tomorrow. Definitely. Tomorrow.