No, You Watch Out Instead, Mr. Networker: How A Freshly-Pressed God Could Get It Wrong

We can be pulled into the vortex of the online universe, even by the non-concrete sphere of this blogging world. More than a few people, however, will be cunning enough to render this hemisphere tangible; the cleverest of whom will carry the stealthy purpose of making a buck out of you, if not now, hopefully in some near future.

What happens when a Freshly-Pressed God gets wind of your misgivings about him? Panic ensues. After all, Mr. Nice Guy image must be preserved; even though his demeanour in private correspondence compared to his online persona has the difference between night and day. So bullying follows – with it a threat.

I don’t like being bullied nor threatened.

Now it makes me wonder, how does Mr. Freshly-Pressed God plan to pulverize me?

Let me ponder on the possible ways:

  • Maybe he’s planning to bring out his bazooka from the basement of his charming house in Canada and aim it at me all the way here. I bet he watched the movie “Wanted” where a bullet could bend and zigzag like crazy before reaching its target miles away.
  • Or maybe toughboy aims to knock me out by swinging his arms ala Manny Pacquiao. Ok, c’mon granpa, hit me with your best shot. Surely your 58-year-old fists still pack a wallop. Hoosh  huk  huk. Oouch….that hurts. Happy now, señor?
  • Or Maybe he’d ask the WPress office to send hail on my site instead of snowfall right this very minute – to annihilate and bury down all my posts. There goes my blog then. Kaput.
  • Or maybe he’s planning to broadcast what a schnook of a writer I am who releases the soggiest, schmaltziest romantic essays. But everybody already knows that, including my cats Coby and Bodie.
  • Probably, too, he works for the CIA and would pass on to all the embassies in the world I used to be a visiting showgirl for OBin Laden during his exile in Pakistan. OMG, so I am a suspected terrorist now?! That will surely be a problem as I plan to tour Zimbabwe soon.
  • Or, it’s more likely he’d be sending his flying band of die-hard followers who’d each bonk me on the head because I made the “mistake” of questioning their Freshly-Pressed god’s sincerity and real objective. All 13,000 of them! Just imagine.

I guess I’m doomed….

Seriously now, I am simply tired of blogging politics, not to mention how most WPress writers handle the false sense of superiority and superstardom blogging fame accords them. It’s appalling when EGOs that have ballooned as big as CHICAGO cause Freshly Pressed Senior Citizens, I mean Freshly Pressed Gods to turn cockier and grumpier.

I started abstaining from email exchanges with any blogger pals several months ago, after the consecutive demise of my email “friendships” with two highly excellent writers in their late 50s (well, I figured then there’s a lot of wisdom to cull from these older folks – Boy, was I dead wrong). I just lost interest. Three years ago when I kick-started this blog, I was a schlemiel who hardly knew anything about relating with residents of the blogosphere. My lack of writing skills, in addition, resulted to my generation of lame and third-rate posts with the substantial understanding nobody would bother to read them anyway. Unknowingly, zero readership and my inferior blogging facility rendered me an easy target. Male bloggers of a certain age know who to mark on by going over one’s past entries and assessing how malleable, unstable, or vulnerable they are. The first blogger – who instigated an email friendship with me – wrote long, beautiful letters that entertained me for three months. The cyberworld, however, does not inform its inhabitants enough about each other so…. But he has already apologized – and my heart isn’t made of stone.

Mr. Freshly Pressed god, who initiated my 2nd e-mail camaraderie, is a lot cleverer and, in my opinion, more pernicious. At first I was impressed he didn’t badger me that I send him photos wearing my birthday suit. Little did I know he was gunning for something else. The motive would stay carefully hidden; his execution smooth and subtle. The Mr. Clean projection has already been laid out in his blog. Now it’s clearer to me why he usually fixes on old pliable women who make up the majority of his so-called “friends.” He’d insist he sincerely wanted a pure, real blog and email friendship with you; fake a modicum of concern for your welfare; pretend he does read your entries – despite dropping forced, obligatory, lacklustre comments on your blog. You’ll stay on his special networking  list – as long as you don’t make it obvious you are nurturing an ascetic soul and are completely useless to him. He eventually found that out about me and extricated himself swiftly barely five weeks after a personal loss hit me a year ago. Not a single friendly note whatsoever from him for months on end. Then came his surprising missive of “concern” last November – one week before launching his new product of greeting cards. Unbelievable.

I am actually relieved the bogus association with Mr. Freshly Pressed God has finally ended. I want to put that unpleasant episode of my bloglife behind me. There’s really nothing wrong with cultivating a livelihood through blogging means. It’s just that I don’t want to have anything to do mixing this art with money. More emphatically, I’ve no plan to dole out my little hard-earned dough to anyone out here. My November post of 2012 had tried to impart that.  I thought he understood its essence at the time.

My life story has been shamelessly spread out through the pages of this blog. It may seem I’ve lost my halo and wings and have fallen from the sky, but I was never an angel to begin with. I never pretended I was. Still, I don’t think I deserved Mr. Freshly Pressed god’s conduct towards me for the promotion of his own ends.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this sorry ending if he had been upfront about his true intentions in the beginning. He could have forgotten a few bloggers aren’t so dumb as not to know networking is on no account synonymous with the fostering of genuine friendships.

And I guess I just don’t take well to threats and bullying, too. Unless not a whit did I come to care – ever. What a fool I’ve been.