I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I’ve got more issues than a hoarder with a thing for magazines. 

If not?  I just did. 

If it weren’t for the internet, I wouldn’t be where I am today.  I doubt I’d be in Colorado, and I certainly wouldn’t have the friends I have.

There are problems, though.

For one thing, I am absolute shit at social networks.  I have a Twitter account that I barely use.  I have a Google Plus account that I’m almost afraid to use.  I use my Facebook account fairly regularly, because that’s where almost everyone I know actually is. 

And that’s where the odd social network anxiety comes in. 

I’ve gotten over part of it.  I post whatever the fuck I feel like posting now, with the occasional warning for new people regarding how absolutely fucking terrible a person I am.  I’ve only lost one person over that shit.

Basically: If you’re offended by me, then you should know better.  Because you sent me the friend request, so you must’ve known a little bit about me going in.. 

But commenting?  That still gets to me.  Not with everyone.  There are people I figure won’t have issues with the shit I say…but then there are others.  Others where I’m in a thread with their more…human friends, or their parents. 

Or, I’ll post a comment and start wondering exactly how they’ll take it.  If they’ll be offended, and then tear into me for being useless, lazy, and non-functioning, or any number of other things, because I’m not doing responsible adult things.

Then there’s the crossovers — when someone invites me to an event out in the real world.  I never give more than a Maybe, for a thousand bullshit excuses.  And I usually fail to show up, which leads to thinking people will eventually just stop inviting me.

Then, I just figure they have stopped, and I’m half relieved [the less people expect of me, the better], and half pointlessly upset.

It’s at this point that I start thinking that I’d really be better off without friends.  Or, at least, they’d be better off without me, because I don’t serve any real purpose. 

At that point, I usually retreat to the safety of Bed, where I wait for sleep to stop lurking and wrap itself around my face, because anxiety is fucking exhausting. 

Which is where I am right now.  In bed, typing this on my Nexus.  Because I spent the entire on the big, winding anxiety slide.  Comments, invites, and…I’m not even sure I can explain the gut-crushing awfulness of sending a private message. 

Maybe.  Imagine having to jump from one rooftop to the other.  It’s not that far, and you’re pretty sure you can do it, but…no.  You run up to the edge and slide to a stop because you’re just not ready this time.  You need to run faster, and start a bit more back.  And again:  no, you almost didn’t jump at exactly the right time.  And no, because it just felt wrong this time. 

It’s just far too easy to imagine the fall, which results in an impossible crater, and a wet, meaty explosion at the bottom.  Or, in the case of sending a message: it’s too easy to imagine that you’re being a nuisance.  That they’re just fucking sick of you, and are going to complain to someone else about your message. 

Now that I’m admitting all this, I do not feel better.  I actually feel worse, because now I have to worry about the people I know thinking that I think they’re horrible people. 

I can’t actually help it.  I’m a terrible person, and there’s an even worse person in my head helping me come up with these things.  It’s a part of me, but it’s a part of me I’d like to tie up and lock away. 

And, you wanna hear the craziest part of all this?  I actually trust people online way more than I do people in real life. 

That just makes it worse.  I don’t have many real-world friends, and I rarely see them in the real world.  And I haven’t known them as long as some of the people I know online.  

There aren’t many local people who could hurt me the way some of those online friends could.