You keep me up at night making me feel insecure with your fake rainbows and unicorn compositions, with your myriad of tiled floors with cute pointy shoes. With your little babies and perfect bodies. With your filters and enhancers and advertising campaigns. It’s been seriously exhausting.
On most days I can’t bear to hear people ask if they know you. What specifically is my gripe with you? The following six phenomena are what I hate about you.
Dear perfect social media creature. I love your hair and smile. And outfits. I probably would want your entire closet if I ever saw it but I’m not a stalker so I haven’t. Yet. Do I want your life though? Probably not and most days I’m exhausted just looking at your pictures. Perfection yes, but then you’re setting such a high standard that I have to put my phone down and remind myself that I’m happy with my neither straight nor wavy locks (if I can even call them locks – it’s more like my 3 remaining strands of hair after two C-section-born kids who force me to hide in my bathroom to eat chocolate and run the tap so it sounds like I’m doing something else). You make me malcontent with my coffee-stained jeans and sloppy, frazzled mom look that really ought to be a trend – any day now.
Dear five million hits for cats. Listen, I’m trying to do something here. I’m trying to find my tribe but my tribe are busy chuckling over how cute you furry ones are. So what if you meow so you look like you’re talking? We get it. Many kittens before you and many after you will be doing the same thing. How can I compete with you when you leap into the air at the sight of a cucumber? What even is that?
Dear Insta mini bloggers. Yes, I agree we all need that rainbow of love you’ve articulated but why can’t you spell properly? Why substitute real words with those emoticons? What does that little alien face even mean? You is spelled y-o-u, not u. Get help, and a dictionary.
Dear portrayer of lifestyle p-o-r-n. Yep, I didn’t want to use that word either, which is why I had to spell it out. (And because I don’t want the “p” word in my SEO analytics.) I think I’d rather see a child’s lamp made out of empty toilet rolls than have to view one more perfect recycled revamped reloved home craft project that so perfectly complements the room it’s restored and rehomed into. Why can’t we just buy IKEA kitset shit, put it together and call it a day? Why does every piece in our homes have to be reimagined, painted unmatching colors, jazzed up with different knobs, and repurposed as something it was never built to be? The next chest of drawers I see that’s recreated as a child’s sleigh bed, I swear, I will burn something to the ground.
Dear Google analytics. Lay off already. I don’t understand you and frankly don’t want to. You annoy me. Stop existing, please. How do I control-alt-delete you?
Dear Likes and Comments. I can’t hate you, I adore you. I truly do! This is clear evidence of my sickness because at the end of the day (or post) you are what make the world go round, dear Likes and Comments. You make my heart go ding-ding. You are the butter to my bread. You make me believe in Santa and fairies and unicorns, which kills me.
So, in retrospect, dear social media, I can’t dump your sleazy, needy, notification-obsessed ass. I’d love to, but I also get a huge kick out of you. You make me smile. You make me believe that something good will come out of all of this posting and tweeting. I imagine a world where @s and #s lift us all up and show the way to silver linings and laughter and – damn it, yea – rainbow and unicorn compositions. I just wish I’d thought up the myriad-of-tiled-floors-with-cute-pointy-shoes shot. Face it, social media, you love me as much as I love you. We’re a thing.
Later (like Q4 2016) when I’m accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature I will stand up and thank you. You will get a shout out before my parents, my agent, and certainly my cat and its scary cucumber. Promise.