You're So Vain.

I was going through Petaling Street, trying to find something to stave off this desire to go sleep, and I stumbled across this.

You walked into the party
Like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf it was apricot
You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself gavotte
And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner
They'd be your partner, and

Yeah, that song started popping up in my head. I mean, it's true, isn't it? Pretty people are vain and self-obssessed and boring and stupid and dull. That's the stereotypes pretty people face, in much the same way that the technologically blind always turn to geeky looking people hoping that they can fix whatever ails their busted commercial gadget.

Think geek, and you imagine some loser in glasses and tatty clothes, who plays lives for World of Warcraft or tabletop wargaming or frenzied masturbation. Think pretty, and she's just some idiot woman who spends a fortune in Strüdels to be insulted by shitty pastries, or Bangsar or Sri Hartamas or wherever it is that the ‘hip’ congregate to spawn, fornicate, network, prevaricate and perform other nefarious and otherwise mysterious deeds that only Hip and Happening people do.

You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?

I mean, really, folks. Get a grip. So what if minishorts calls you a fucking beggar? So what if the most you'll achieve in the community would be a five-second quote from Great Big Men, and then it's back to Iowa for you? Why are you in here anyway, for the fame and fortune?

What fame and fortune?

You had me several years ago
When I was still quite naive
Well, you said that we made such a pretty pair
And that you would never leave
But you gave away the things you loved
And one of them was me
I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee
Clouds in my coffee, and

Forget it. You came in here to be loved and adored, you're in the wrong place. Don't hope you'll end up like the people you see in the news, all bright-eyed and shiny and hopeful and idealistic and brilliant.

It's an unrewarding hobby. For ninety percent of you, you'll never get an audience beyond a thousand people during the whole lifetime of your blog. Even then you'd be lucky. The only to be famous is if you're obsessive-compulsive, exhibitionist _[NSFW] (nice ribs), or just plain offensive. And frankly, that might just net an arrest for all you know.

Why do I do this? Because I want to have my say. I love having my say. And because I have this problem with avoiding eye contact in real life. It's a bad habit I'm trying to break, but I don't have it online. And I can talk here, sort of. Well, actually, sometimes not here, but this is where it's safe to just drop my pants and moon the rest of the world. And no one will give a shit.

You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?

It pisses me off when people talk about blogging as a ‘Great Way to Meet People And Experience New Things’, thus giving a whole new generation of bloggers Exactly the Wrong Idea. You blog, children, because you are compelled; either you can shut up or they can't cover you up, either way's fine.

I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee
Clouds in my coffee, and

Blogging isn't the new journalism. It's the new “Screaming At The Sidewalk While Everyone Around You Tries To Avoid Your Eye”. It's not about who hears you, but what you say. Stop listening to the audience. You won't starve to death if you suck — unless you're stupid enough to try blogging for a living.

You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?

I don't have blog-tracking software. I don't know how many people visit. Or care. I don't care if you do or don't care. That's not my business; I'm just here because I've got something to say and this is a great place to say it.

Well, I hear you went up to Saratoga
And your horse naturally won
Then you flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia
To see the total eclipse of the sun
Well, you're where you should be all the time
And when you're not, you're with
Some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend
Wife of a close friend, and

I mean, seriously. Hani loves checking her stats. Once in a while Jeff and Aminuddin occasionally post their stats online and tell the whole world how great they the blogosphere is getting, and how their blogs are tedious wastes of newsreader real-estate valuable avenues of discourse among young Malaysians. I'm sure some of you wonder how many people come into your blog, and how often they come.

Honestly, I don't know how many people come here. Nor do I care. What I do care is their answer to this question — why are they here?

Do you expect me to perform for you? Because I don't. Do you expect me to listen to your cares and sympathize? Because I don't. Do you expect nipplace and nudity? Sorry, try somewhere else.

You're here because of coincidence. You find my shit interesting, and I write, to you anyway, interesting shit.

You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?

Incidentally, I blogged about it because CS's comments page seemed broken. Oh well. Congratulations, CS. I'm your whore.

Huh. His TrackBack's fucked as well. What the hell is up with that?