So Flickr has these stats. I set them up a bit ago. I check them occasionally. Until today, I never noticed a referral that wasn’t from Flickr itself.
Yesterday I got a referral from wired.com to a photo I took in 2007, from a story written in March 2009. My photo was their NuvaRing example for laying the ground rules for a “found” photoshop contest about the birth control of the future.
I drew over my surname because at the time I was trying to be slightly anonymous on the Internet. Oh, those were the days.
Visiting the photo reminded me that I’d added it, on request, to two Flickr groups a long time back: One of these things is not like the other… and Contraceptives & Other Images of Birth Control.
Between the groups and friends and that one person who was reading year-old wired.com articles, my birth control has, to date, been viewed by 2,288 people, over a period of 3 years. (Ha. Period.)
2,288 people. 3 years.
The Internet is a vagina-centric time machine.
Update: I just realized that by blogging about it I’ve completed the Internet circle. Yay.
After work I got groceries. I had a few eggs left from the previous carton, so instead of taking the new eggs out and putting them in their little eggcup tray in the fridge, I sat the new carton on top of the tray. Of course the first time I opened the fridge door this evening, they flew out and landed top down on the stone kitchen floor.
Several survived. 3 of the casualties (thin shells, thick membranes) became an emergency omelette, with garlic and cheese and a salad and sourdough toast.
It occurred to me as I was cooking that my first reaction to the egg suicide was laughter, not crying or punishing myself in some illogical way for not being a good egg carton steward.
Part of it is just growing up. Obviously, there’s no actual reason to cry over a carton of broken eggs (unless you are starving and you can’t get more eggs). There never was. There never will be.
Part two is coping. Most people I’ve talked to my age, particularly those in high stress and/or professional positions, admit to having some kind of Impostor Syndrome. I think this generally gets compounded for people (like myself) who are anxious by nature. By accepting that I will probably always feel like I’m faking at least some part of my life, it’s okay to mess up. Somehow.
And the third part is finally not giving a shit.
I think I’m finally pulling myself up over the lip of the third part.
