I knew the blog had officially arrived when I decided to start one. Usually the last one on any bandwagon, I jumped on right after reading a New York Times journalist’s blog about a frontline U.S. soldier’s blog. Just before the word lost all meaning, I asked myself, “Why should everyone else have a blog and all I get are these lousy five columns whenever I feel like it with a guaranteed audience of at least 16,000 people? Where’s the justice?”

So I pursued.

One Google search and I found my way to a free blog hosting website, complete with spiffy pastels and all sorts of generic typing options. After choosing a name, I pitter-pattered away about all my inconsequential trifles and obscure observations. I must admit, it felt pretty good at first. It had all the elements of a natural high: boosted self-esteem, a sense of optimism, an appeased appetite and the feeling that I was contributing to society.

Sure, few would read what I had to say — and those who didn’t will continue to live a meaningless life — but I had my own website. I felt important. Strangely, I finally felt like I was human.

Within a matter of seconds, I suddenly felt the urge to be known by even more people. I had heard of the Facebook by word of Gremlin mouth. Every inconsequential person I knew was on Facebook, save a few consequential folk with whom I would later identify. I had to make myself accessible to them. So I did. It was dangerously easy.

Never the one to be complacent, I sought more self-advertisement. I’d heard of a website so vague, so compartmentalized yet so spatial that it could be mine. Of course, I speak of MySpace, a revolutionary idea designed to give people bored with mediums about other people their own mediums that other people will be bored with.

You and I are obsessed with transmitting ourselves to the world. We saw it first with the away message. Today’s a doozy: class, library, work, coffee, pick the wedgie out of my ass, floss twice, more coffee, buy condoms, lube, meditate, intramurals, get more lube. Maybe there’s a practical thought process behind this, or maybe there isn’t, but I ask: Why do we think that other people care? Or do we even care if other people care?

I, for one, don’t care if people care if other people care about them. I just care about what you think about my [insert your potentially detrimental adjective here] space. I mean just look at the design of this page. Look at this art above me and over there. Isn’t that some neat space?

I hope this will be a positive revolution of media. Some warn that blogs and other mediums functioning on hearsay could be potentially hazardous to the consciousness of America, but I think we’ll be able to do away with the most hazardous phenomenon to the human psyche ever: the celebrity.

What these websites are doing is making celebrities out of pathetic slobs like yourself. You too can become worthy of being known. The only legitimate qualifier for being a celeb is that you have your own website, right?

So if we can dilute the celebrity pool, maybe we’ll be less concerned with Britney Spears’ waistline and Brad Pitt’s jaw line. This is a good thing.

After all, we are a generation that has mastered the art of knowing a little about a lot and knowing a lot about little. If we know more people, we’ll know less about celebrities and our lives will be necessarily less pathetic. Well, except for the people who don’t pay any attention to me. They’re losers.

Daily Nexus opinion editor Chris Trenchard can also be found on websites such as donkeysRus.com, Pygmalion-is-for-pigs.com, and look-at-me-i-have-a-website.com.