E-Discord

I have to admit that it has been one of the best online relationships I’ve ever had. We have spent an awful lot of time together – it's embarrassing, really – late nights until I almost couldn't keep my eyes open, early mornings, moments I’d steal away while at work just to see what he had to say, just to check up on the most current comings and goings of our favorite friends.

But our partnership has grown tiresome. I don’t like who I become when he is around. It pains me to say it, but I turn into that woman, needy and obsessive and fixated and fanatical. Not the woman I want to and am trying to be. So as with all things that just might not be meant to be, it has to end. That’s why it's over with me and StatCounter.

I remember when I first discovered this amazing, newfangled functionality (likely two to four years after most of you did). I was simultaneously a) overjoyed at the thought of being able to see where all three of my readers lived and/or surfed for p*rn, and b) mortified that those sites I had already stalked knew that I did so, refreshing their pages every few seconds and scouring their archives while I ate Froot Loops and brushed my teeth. Ugh.

In our early days together, StatCounter opened up a whole new world for me. Someone in South Africa is reading my post about Celine Dion! Someone in South Jersey – who interestingly enough was looking for Google’s answer to: Is your wife a wino or a winner? – made his way to my corner of the Information Superhighway! (I won’t even touch the searches placed by those interested in purchasing diva maxi pads, the person I wanted to crack who claimed he was going to kill this God damn cricket slowly, or all the winos, the dozens and dozens of beautiful winos, who found my site while looking for a good, sturdy girdle.) For a long time, it was a beautiful thing; I got to see what corner of the world readers were coming from. And what you were reading. We were on the same page.

But then began our disagreements. As with all of my relationship failures, then entered neediness. No longer could Stat watch Monday Night Football in peace. There I was on the couch next to him, wanting to talk at length about WHY DID MY STATS FALL THROUGH THE FLOOR ON SATURDAYS? or WHY IS IT THAT I GET SO FEW HITS COMPARED TO [insert your name here], DAMMIT? Don’t get me started on grabbing the remote out of his hand when he refused to discuss at length whether my e-friendship with [insert your name here unless male, and then you’d insert the name of your favorite female blogger, other than me, of course . . .] was over given that she really doesn’t visit much anymore?

Are you getting the gist yet?

But the most awful act, the point at which I knew I had to come back from the e-brink, occurred during my breakup, when registered hits from a known offender translated in my mind to meaning I was loved, cared about, THAT MY WRITING ABOUT MY CALF CRAMPS AT SWIMMING AND N*KED LOCKER ROOMING AND MY SINGLEHOOD WITH FELINES WAS DAMN FUNNY. Before I knew it I was burning incense and listening to Tori Amos in the dark and rocking myself to sleep in the fetal position.

Not really.

But I don’t like being chained to it. Don’t. want. to have to check it. I’m hoping that when people visit, they’ll leave a little imprint by way of a comment (check my profile occupation, I’m admittedly still in 12 step for that obsession). No more reliance.

So goodbye, StatCounter. It was a good trip and I’ll surely miss the early days. Now if you don't mind, could you give SiteMeter a ride on your way home?