We need to talk…
Look, when you came along in the 80s it was great. Not many people knew who you were or what you were about—but we all agreed that you were pretty awesome. We called you the information super highway, and we squealed with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. Then AOL came along and everyone could get a piece of the action. Remember those silly sounds you made while “signing on”? They were so silly! We would get so excited when we heard the three little words—”you’ve got mail”. Let’s not forget how Instant Messaging made teenage gossip ten times easier!
Blogs were around, but mostly we used them to publicly bitch about our teenage drama. Remember Livejournal, Xanga, and DairyJournal? Why hear what Jenny thinks about you when you can read it directly from her LiveJournal! Who could forget precious little websites like the Hamster Dance, Assasins.com, or EbaumsWorld? The internet was filled with crap! Wonderful harmless crap! I would spend hours online chatting with my classmates, or building my AOL homepage– complete with 36 different animated GIFs and inspirational song lyrics.
But now, I don’t know how I feel about you internet. MySpace came around and I was all like…what the hell is this shiz? Then Facebook demanded my attention, and my college classmates would’ve banish me if I didn’t have an account. So, we all got an account. It was harmless internet fun at first. We took pictures, uploaded videos, and tagged our friends– only to later untag ourselves while looking for a job. One time, a boy found my dorm room through Facebook. He then slid a love letter/poem under my door one night. At the time I thought it was romantic, but now—it’s just fucking creepy.
One day the gates opened, and Facebook was no longer just a haven for drunken college kids–it morphed into a time killer for stay at home moms. Everyone is on Facebook now. EVERYONE. My Dad has a facebook. My High School principal has a Facebook, and now they can see the pictures of me cavorting with my friends at Tattooed Moms. We’re used to being the generation of over-sharers, but our parents were always blissfully unaware of the things we did. Now they see everything.
Facebook allows human to interact in ways they’ve never interacted before. Are you going on a date? Facebook the shit out of him. Find out who he’s friends with, who he’s dated, and why he’s not dating them anymore. Is your friend dating someone new? Don’t worry! You can play detective and snoop FOR your friend. It’s ok. Everyone is doing it.
Turning our attention towards Twitter, we have 140 characters of self-expression to splatter across the internet. Tweet where you are and what you’re doing. Better yet, tweet what other people are doing. Be passive aggressive about the horribly dressed hipster in that trendy bar. No one will know! You can verbally assault anyone at any given time! We’re a society of closeted assholes, and it’s ok because you’re on the internet. You’re allowed to be a douchebag on the internet.
Wanna play Foursquare? Yeah? Awesome! Let’s get a free shot at the local bar. Let’s become mayor of my own house (because I spend so many lonely lonely nights there), and let’s give my psychotic ex boyfriend probable cause to stalk the shit out of me! I don’t know what it is Foursquare, but there is this tiny part of my brain that yells “People need to know where you are! Check in! Check in so you can be surrounded by people who give a crap.” But then, ultimately NO ONE gives a crap where I am, and I’m left with a hallow emptiness that eats my soul. It’s like heroin—but less fun.
What happened to you internet? You used to be fun. You used to be cool, but now you’re all up in my shit. Facebook has added Places to its repertoire of private information gathering, and I feel like I’m in the middle of a shitty George Orwell novel. Everything I do online is tracked, sent out, archived, and will eventually come back and bite me in the ass. The thing is, I can’t stop using it, because if I do I will lack a social life.
Look internet, if you don’t stop being such a buzz kill I’m leaving you. Seriously. I’ll check into a rehab center, go through withdraw, and sit in group crying about how badly I want to “check in” to Betty Ford right now. I’ll do it internet. I swear to God.