“Social media is just the market’s answer to a generation that demanded to perform. So the market said, ‘Here, perform everything to each other, all the time, for no reason.’ It’s horrific. It’s prison. It’s performer and audience melded together. What do we want more than to lay in our bed at the end of the day, and just watch our life as a satisfied audience member?
I know very little about anything, but what I do know is that if you can live your life without an audience – you should do it.”
– Bo Burnham, Make Happy
I cannot in good conscience recommend that any of you go watch the Netflix comedy special, Make Happy. So in neutral conscience: I absolutely recommend that you watch it. Bo Burnham is a comedic genius.
I took a break from packing last weekend and went downtown to people watch at a local park. While I was there, I ran into someone I sort-of know, and she shared with me some sorrowful details of her current struggle with body image. She was unhappy. She felt compelled to present an image of herself as aired-out and effortlessly beautiful – which, at some point, had been the truth.
She told me how scary it was to present herself online, let alone tell the truth when the truth didn’t frame her yoga poses in a soft golden-hour light.
And even though she had something of a strong, voyageristic social media presence, all of this was news to me.
Back home, I logged onto Facebook, and at the top of my newsfeed was a photo. I was surprised to see that the person I talked to at the park had posted a photo caption that appeared to be the first draft of an E-book; but what shocked me was the tone of her post.
Here’s how you can become as happy as I am.
And as likes piled up, I thought, Good for her. I hope she’s happy.
(Stock photo, let’s just be clear.)
There’s a saying that those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, and my house got floor-to-ceiling windows installed the day I logged on here and clicked “New Post” for the first time.
This blog is an image that I present. This blog is social media. When I’m done writing it, I’ll post it on Facebook. Afterwards, I’ll check my email every few hours to see if someone left a comment.
I’m a hypocrite, and I know it.
I also know that popularity today has little to do with personal integrity, compassion and kindness. Guys and girls who are famous and idolized gain esteem because of physical beauty, creative camera angles and wit that’s been drafted, re-drafted and perfectly timed in a post.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone to bed with a head full of EDM Snapchat stories full of young celebrities licking the camera lens while news of racial minorities, scientific advancements and a good, old fashioned book went unread.
The amount of hours I’ve spent trying to neutralize the pain in my life by crafting a post indirectly asking others to accept me when I cannot accept myself.
I lay in bed at night and analyze the hurricane of self-promotion that I see ripping the roof off my generation’s psyche.
And yet, I wake up the next morning and give the best of my time (morning social media scroll) to filling my head with comparisons that drain me of my joy.
I don’t really know where this blog is going, honestly. This should be about the end-point, but thoughts and metaphors keep tumbling towards my fingertips and dissolving before they even strike the page, tissuepaper in water.
I thought about all of this yesterday as I walked past a pond near my house, every head bowed in prayer to the digital deity cradled in hands below. People around me shuffled slowly, uncertainly, and I walked through them like Brad Pitt walked out of the zombie-infested laboratory at the end of World War Z. All around, life was unfolding. The swollen tangerine sun was 30 seconds from dropping below the hill of the cemetery, shooting golden rays through the oak tree’s twirling leaves like a dying cowboy emptying his last round.
One slanted ray intercepted my line of vision, and I knew in that moment that should anyone meet my gaze, they’d see that my eyes turn green when overexposed.
So this shoebox full of thoughts dressed up as a single thesis statement would be this:
Your worth isn’t tied to how well you can sell an image to your audience. I’m tired of not looking into your eyes.
Maybe it’s time for me to accept the fact that the majority of the population prefers playing Pokemon Go instead of spending an afternoon on the worn carpet of a used bookstore, laughing at old Shel Silverstein poems.
Maybe I’m outdated.
Maybe I’d be less disappointed with my generation if I quit bemoaning the omnipresence of dinnertime texting, news via Facebook’s trending topics, and the compulsion to filter and Snapchat every pedestrian detail of a birthday, tailgate or vacation.
But I can’t give in. I love your eyes too much.
And I love the way hands fiddle with straw wrappers during the lulls in conversation, and the uncomfortable humbling of myself I have to perform every time I’m lost on a street corner and have to ask someone to point me on my way.
I’ll never get offended by your honesty.
I’ll never stop trying to look you in the eye.
Maybe, one of these days, you could look up into mine.
