It was like I suddenly realized that the whole freakin’ world could see my weblog. I had told my supervisor about it, but she didn’t care enough to read it. No one there cared enough about me to ask my opinion or what I thought about the office. It wasn’t until they knew that they were going to lay me off that they obsessed over those entries. I still wonder why they didn’t just ask me.

So, I’ve been hiding behind a camera for five months. I’ve been reviewing books and movies and other websites. I’ve been talking in monkey jabber because I realized that I really am just a naked monkey, exposing myself and throwing vomit.

Sure, I’ve taken some pretty pictures. Sure, I’ve found some interesting quotations. Sure, I’ve kept producing. There has been some bit of something for you to look at every day when you come here, but I stopped showing anything of myself for a good five months there. You got glimpses of skin, where you were used to seeing a streaker.

Wanna know what got me out of my dark clothing and back into the light in my birthday suit?

I came across a weblog called Waiter Rant. Real Live Preacher had directed me to it before, but I promptly forgot it existed after reading the one, beautiful entry. This time, Slashfood directed me to him and I suddenly remembered loving this guy. After reading a couple of weeks worth of back entries, I felt ashamed.

He was writing the way I wanted to write. It was beautiful. It was candid. It was truthful. Worst of all, I was almost there. I have had moments when I’ve written that well. I had placed them on my weblog and they turned around and bit me in the ass, so I decided that I needed to protect myself.

After five months, I know what “protect myself” looks like. It looks like a bunch of pretty photographs and a pile of stupid reviews. That would be great if I wanted to be a photographer, but I am a writer. I can take the most beautiful photo in the world and have it hang in a museum next to Ansel Adams and I would feel like a huge failure. I don’t want a spot in a museum. I want a shelf at the Library of Congress. I’m not going to get there by hiding behind a camera.

So here I am: naked with milky white skin and cellulite and dark curly hair and strong muscles that could kick you in the groin or help you move furniture. Let my writing bite me in the ass. I’m strong enough to handle it.