Ok, fine. We love it more than we hate it. But we hate it a little bit, and a little bit—at least for me—is often enough.
The immortality of digital information is astoundingly daunting to the mothers of risqué preteens wearing thongs for the first time. Your browser is more like a real jar full of cookies than you’d think. You can get rid of it all with a good binge in front of a Netflix documentary. But the odds that you ate them so fast and with so much fervor are increibly high. And when we get excited about a good cookie, we get crumbs everywhere, leaving a trail tangible enough for a blind Bubbe to follow.
What you search on the web isn’t where it ends. Really, that’s where it begins.
What you see online, you send. Have you seen your Facebook newsfeed lately? Do I need to take another Buzzfeed quiz to learn more about what color my personality really resembles?
Well, the same goes for texting. And texting, more often than not, includes sending photos. God gave us not one, but two cameras on the iPhone for a reason. The trend goes as follows in every aspect of life: the more pics, the better.
What you see in a text, you send. You read, you gasp, you laugh, you get really mad, you don’t know how to deal with a boy, you screenshot, you send, you send again to friend number two, you send again to friend number three, you wait for friends one, two, and three to respond, you anxiously watch the cloud from the original conversation that holds so much potential that is begging to precipiate.
Even if you delete your conversation in an angsty rage, while listening to Alanis Morsette’s Jagged Little Pill, what was said exists in a million other forms. Other people have it, and other people can talk about it.
But those little chat bubbles are blue for a reason. They’re as addicting as Heisenberg’s crystal. We. Must. Chat.
So, along came Snapchat. Allowing you to take a photo and send it to someone else (or many people, if you’re really feeling like spreading the love—and, likely, the legs) with the consistent relief that whatever you sent would disappear, forever, within seconds.
This is why people love Snapchat. Do I even need to explain it any further? It allows you to be ugly, raunchy, messy, funny, and flirty. We can be it all, just because of a disappearing act. It’s kinda sad that we aim to build outward perception of ourselves with something so ephemeral. It would make more sense that we should strive to portray ourselves in ways we are far from ashamed to behave.
Still, we love seeing and sending ourselves through this lense. We can be the pretty and ugly at the same time. We can take perflectly align the left sides of our faces to the overhead flourescent in the ladies’ room —where you can see that quirky beauty mark, or that flawless, yet also “I woke up like this” eyeliner—and send it out to a dozen people when we’ve got it just right.
I love Snapchat. I also hate it. I’m stuck in middle school, receiving AOL Instant Messenger notifications about a girl posing topless that got sent to a friend of a camp friend’s home friend’s older brother’s camp friend.
It’s fun, of course. But everytime a Snapchat is sent, a square inch of ego permeates the realm of #nofilter (which, one could argue, is equally as vain). Love your Snapchats, love yourselves. Avoid taking nudes, though. That never goes as well as you want it to.
I brought up spring cleaning to a boy. “What’s spring cleaning?” he asked.
“You know, like spring cleaning,” I said.
“What about winter cleaning?” he was frighteningly genuine.
“People like to clean for spring. It’s a widely known thing.”
“Like, mowing the lawn and shit?” Boys will never get it.
Spring cleaning is an activity created for the anal, by the anal. We stress about the messes we make year round, and then isolate a season filled with butterflies and April showers to especially stress about getting rid of last year’s dress that turned out to be really cheap and unflattering.
People always assume that I’m an organized person because I’m great at acting like I have my shit together. I was always organized academically, with a fetish of sorts for school shopping. I was never organized socially. Double-booking (that’s being modest, it’s more like triple-booking) is my specialty. I’m not a bad friend, I’m just disorganized. Really. I swear.
I’m using spring cleaning as a way to distract myself from going to the gym. Spring cleaning makes you feel more productive. Plus, it’s much easier to fill garbage bags than you think.
Usually, I fill up three or four garbage bags with old–or not so old–clothes. Rule one of spring cleaning: don’t feel guilty giving it away, no matter how recently you bought it. It’ll go somewhere good. Rule two: if you don’t wear it, you aren’t going to in the future. The one year rule is a very real thing that likens itself to the 11th of the ten commandments.
One year, I decided to write “SALVATION ARMY” in all caps with a thick, black Sharpie on my white Hefty Heavy Duty. I didn’t want the cleaning ladies to mistake it for garbage, as they once did a small stack of papers chronicling my first relationship. It’s all garbage anyway, metaphorically speaking. My mom told me that my labeling was rude and unnecessary because she wasn’t giving the clothes to the Salvation Army; she was giving them as hand-me-downs to younger cousins and family friends, and I was being condescending by treating loved ones like charity cases.
I never labeled my garbage bags again. But ah, how I will always remember how exhilarating it felt to label a full bag. There are no downsides to spring cleaning. It relieves your seasonal depression, and it makes you feel productive by completing a narcissistic, self-centered task. And don’t we all deserve that every once in a while?
Jambo, and welcome to the new and improved Fro-Yo Diaires! We got a makeover, people. It is very exciting, it is very “neat-looking,” as my mom describes it, and it is very hip. It’s like the Regina George’s mom of website re-launches, but much less tacky and much less plastic surgery. However, we do still promote hump day treats, safe sex, and the like. The FYD is still simple, still full of the short, stubby legs I have been #blessed with since birth (check out that logo), and still full of the same old content you’ve either learned to love or loved to hate (or any other feeling you have that didn’t sound quite as nifty here).
Have fun hovering over the drop-down menu items with that sparking mouse arrow you downloaded in 2006. Listen to some Sigur Ros under the aesthetic pleasure of the sick image displays. Don’t miss a thang and follow me on Bloglovin by clicking on that cartoon girl’s boob. Make your merry way through the slideshow gallery displaying all of my latest posts, and click on those photos to read! read! read more!
Hope you’re as excited about it as I am, as I currently hibernate in #nomakeup wearing my Juicy sweatpants. It’s a Monday night, baby, and I’m alive!!!!!! Also, photo creds to my 11 year old brother.
Peace, love, & eternal fro-yo,