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God, it’s just impossible to maintain a solid community on the Internet, isn’t it? And I feel like as a living, breathing person who talks to other living, breathing people, I shouldn’t care, but I do. Of course I do. Some of my best memories, favorite writing, and even favorite people live on the Internet. A few years ago, when I left a great job to follow my husband to a city where I had almost no friends and no good way to occupy my time, sites like Gawker and WordSmoker became something of a second home. Then Gawker’s beautiful old tudor suddenly went modern and I couldn’t understand how the stairs worked which was pretty important since the elevator was always broken, and WordSmoker got bloodier than Iraq, and I found myself Internet homeless. I still find myself Internet homeless. I don’t care about cats and people’s love lives enough for Crasstalk. I don’t care about fantasy or being an asshole under the guise of being helpful enough for Absolute Write. I can’t stop myself from wanting to punch the people who write 400 comments in a row on a Gossip Girl recap at NYMag. I can’t seem to remember that Salon and Slate exist, even though I follow both on Twitter.

And so I wander. But I think very, very fondly of my Invisibles. Even Vick Cheney.

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