The other day while talking to my daughter (20), I asked her if she read any blogs. Her tepid response was a sing-songy “not reaaaallllly.” Not really. Yep, not really. Over the course of my internet lifetime things sure have changed. Traditional hobbyist bloggers are dinosaurs.
Remember when Facebook was new and “fun”? Its smoldering carcass is an echo chamber for shit politics and I don’t even know what. Useless garbage.
It’s been that way for years but now it feels like it’s on its last swirl circling the drain. I give it a cursory glance each day and more often than not find myself thinking, oh, who cares? about the majority of the crap the algorithm thinks I want to see.
Instagram isn’t too far behind on the apathy scale. Scroll, habit-scroll, habit-scroll. Most of the time I don’t want to participate. I don’t want to share. I don’t want to care. Maybe I’ve just reached my saturation point, I dunno.
So much of the Instagram experience feels phony – where bodies are displayed as a commodity under the guise of talking about van life, or motorcycles, or travel, that I just… blah. I super don’t care about anyone else’s boobs. Like, at all. If I want to see relatable or inspiring photos of women traveling, having the images served up with what?-no!-its-totally-not-intentional cleavage is such a turn off.
We’re never moving beyond the need to sexualize and titillate for relevance, are we? It works. Every. Fucking. Time.
In some way I feel like I’ve allowed myself to be numbed out, and my thinkin’ muscle to get weak. All I do is cram more of this useless nonsense into the spaces where curiosity should be toiling away. I’m slowly smothering my imagination with a walrus-lost-his-bucket meme’d pillow.
And I hate myself for continuing to participate in something that doesn’t bring me joy. Because social media definitely doesn’t do that. But, because blogs are typically passive, if I don’t leverage social media to remind people that I exist the chances are pretty good that I’ll miss out on reach opportunities. At least that’s the excuse I tell myself. I’m a whining hypocrite.
Maybe I need to reevaluate for the eleventy millionth time why I write these posts. Would it truly matter if no one read them? Is the real key to it all that the satisfaction and purpose is solely in the doing? And once the word baby flies away to the world at large, my job is over. If a post was not read by someone would I still get what I came for?
Or maybe the pendulum needs to swing wildly in the opposite direction – I should post cleavage shots next to my motorcycle and STFU. Because Likes = Love. Or something.
Don’t mind me. I’ll just be over here petting my brontosaurus.