Written and Drawn by Matthew Bogart
Story by Matthew Bogart and Jesse Holden
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Thank god you found this site!
You know why?
Because this site is the one site that can tell you the true purpose of the internet.
That’s right. I’ve figured it all out.
I know. What great news!
I hear you saying:
“Doug! You’re a teenager! You don’t know anything! You can’t know the true purpose of the internet!”
And you’re almost right about that. I can’t seem to pass a math class to save my life. My English grades aren’t too hot either. Figuring out social skills and “small talk” has been an exercise in humility. I - know - very - little about most everything.
But I know the internet.
See, I’ve been sharing links on this site since the early days, back when you could read the entire internet in a long weekend. Server logs tell me that an entire football stadium of IP addresses, thousands of people, have visited this site over that time.
And though it took me all that time before I realized it…
I know the meaning of the web.
And I'm going to tell you now.
I know none of you know me in person. No one in my town is online, so you’ll just have to trust me when I say that … things have been … fucked up… for a long time.
And the thing that led me to this realization about the web came after a particularly bad period.
A couple of different packs of assholes were making a project out of harassing me at school, which ended up in my beloved Discman getting broken. I came home and my brother Rori yelled at me for like an hour because our garbage disposal was broken and we needed to save money. I’d recently crushed my mom's dreams in life, and I was beginning to suspect I was going to need to reformat my hard drive. Again. On top of all that this girl had just come up and kissed me and I
It was Race Condition. A buffer overflow.
It was too much.
I was breaking things in my basement room where no one could hear me just going at it. I was breaking my things! It was real bad.
I was exhausted, I think, and without thinking, I booted up my computer, opened up Notepad, and vomited all of this shit into HTML.
I wrote about mom not coming out of her room, the stuff with dad, about Anna’s family, and my stuff with guys, the social experiments I do, and on and on, I wrote all night.
And … I…just… posted it. Without thinking.
Flushed it down the telephone line.
It wasn’t till later that I realized what I’d done
When the people who had been coming to my site for weird links logged on and saw this enormous 10,000-word screed about a teenage boy they didn’t know, who’d just completely lost his shit, they um…
Emails poured in—hundreds of them.
A 40-year-old in Saudi Arabia said he cried reading my post. He was thinking about his dad. A kid with a couple of terrible fucking sisters felt less alone because of what I said about Rori. A programmer grieving over the loss of his brother in Kuwait wanted to tell me things were going to be okay. He said to have hope.
They didn’t make fun of me.
They didn’t call me weak,
or a burden.
They just gave a shit.
I’m choked up thinking about it.
I started sharing
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