emdash abuser
A majority of people (on PSQ) claim they will not date another person who “puts their life on the internet very freely” —
And? Why though?
What is the problem with showing yourself as you are? When is it too much?
It’s strange we police such behaviour, given the self-absorbed creatures that we are — at the end of a long day, alone in your headspace, who really cares about what another common man does?
For the first time in a while, I had second thoughts about the oversharing I perform online.
I have always considered the potential consequences of doing so. I have also decided that they are insignificant in the grander scheme of things (what is a thought worth if never acted upon?).
What makes this second-guessing border on the absurd is that my main subject is my feelings. If people think they can weaponise my experiences against me, they are a fool at best and deranged at worst. I am my biggest critic; there’s nothing new they could possibly bring to the table. Attempting to police self-expression only highlights the complainant’s insecurities and prejudices. That’s why shit-stirrers without substance are usually anonymous — if they had conviction in their opinions, they wouldn’t be in hiding like the cowards they are.
But let’s move on to the other and more exciting kind of disclosure: the tell-alls, where I write about specific others. By the way: those get the most views, so what does that tell you about human nature?
My observations of people tell me that being deconstructed and revealed to others feels like punishment to many. There’s a curious feeling that rises in one’s stomach when they realise they’re the subject of someone else’s reports. It’s never fun to be written about negatively, and I take accountability for my words, so I do my best to avoid character attacks. I interpret what I observe and let my readers come to their own conclusions; that’s what keeps it fun. (Are you a disappointment? I don’t determine that; my audience does.)
I did backtrack once when I wrote a post about somebody whom I really cared for, even though I said nothing bad about them. I realised I didn’t want to subject them to scrutiny in the same way that I do to myself. So, if you’re a loved one who has wondered why I haven’t written about you, please know that I haven’t precisely because I care about you.
I will only ever explicitly write about people (typically men; I wonder why) that I do not care to keep in my life. I do think of it as a little punishment, maybe (FAFO for short). Even then, I keep their identity semi-anonymous out of basic decency: I have principles, you know. To reveal and be revealed is cathartic for me, though. Thus we have this blog — the product of all of these preferences. So, ironically, I have to credit the least deserving people for inspiring my work.
(To my future lover: if you’re reading this and you’re intimidated, don’t be. Again, inverting FAFO, you won’t be punished if you don’t mess around in the first place.)
It’s all fun and games in the end. If you don’t care, fine — you won’t be missed, and now I’ve made another pretty piece of art. If you care — enjoy the feeling while it lasts! If you love it, even better — it’d excite me further. If you want to retaliate, you’re welcome to do so — I told you, I love the thrill. One question that sets us apart, though: can you handle the consequences?
But okay, that’s enough meta for today. (I should really get a new hobby.)
I used to have a (even more) personal blog where I overshared about everything under the sun. I even posted love letters there. Look, I have no justification, but in my defense I thought they were sweet. (Don’t ask me, I’m not telling.) Well, everyone has their big cringe phase. But all good things must come to an end.
A friend asked me why I write. At least part of the reason I do so – though not entirely – is for others to read. Social connection is, quite simply, the essence of humanity. It always has been. For my friends, lovers, peers – for anyone that’s reading. Few things are quite as intimate as reading the stream of consciousness of another person. Especially when pieces are not written with a specific audience in mind: take away the grammar and all that’s left is a projection of the self.
And oversharing is a high. It feels great to be validated by others, even if they’re faceless figures whose existence is represented by a series of numbers. Add to that basic need the technology of instant gratification and you have the billion-dollar industry that is social media. All of it, for us to come to this point where we say too much and take back too little because we can’t anymore.
OB markers and fake news aside, I’ve been told to refrain from saying too much online if only for fear that it will someday come back to bite me. The vulnerabilities that distinguish my person, the arguments that I construct my identity with, and the emotions that tie me to moments of lived reality. Because anything can and will be weaponised against you if you’re not careful – even when you’re careful. I don’t deny it’s true. Yet, if we live like that all the time, where censorship is not merely an external force but coming from within, then we have been defeated even before we begin.
Where would the space left for self-expression be? In a draft hidden away in the unpublished virtual space, or in the dusty corners of the backs of our minds? If it’s not cherished here in the moment, something we’ll never recapture otherwise, where does it go? If social reality is constructed by two or more people, and a secret is not shared, did the latter ever exist?
I write to remember. Each piece is a fragment, a piece of broken glass. Put them all together someday, and maybe I’ll see in it a mirage of the entirety of lived experience, along with the people who mattered to me. I hope it’s a reflection worth remembering.
baby g’s diary 