Give Me Your Stupid, Mundane Life

Who ARE these people, these sharing police, who are TOO GOOD AND TOO IMPORTANT for your tacos? Your butts? Your dogs? Your airplane wings, hotel rooms, gushing 2:30 a.m. love, kids, yearbook photo, parents when they were young, birthday cake, new curtains, the sunset, the skyline.

I want it all. I want your whole lives. Share them with me. Hashtag them. I want to slide into bed after a long night and look at your kittens, crawling out of boxes for the first time. Your #kittens.

I want to see the sheen on your face after a hard workout. I want to watch your body transform. I want to see your undulating #abs. I want to want to fuck you, but I want to be too polite to say it.

I want to see your tattoos. When they’re raw, bloody, bad ideas and still puffy. Please don’t wait.

I want to see your #food. Your perfectly sliced avocado. The one you made, the one your partner made, the one you got at the convention your work made you go to, the one you got at the diner down the street, on vacation, from a truck.

I want to see the #show you’re at. Where you’re really far back in the crowd and I can’t tell who it even is because that is how crowded and dark it is and how far away you are, but I want to know you’re having a good time and you want to share it with #me.

I want to see you in your new dress, pretending this photo isn’t about how you great you look. When your hair looks good, when your makeup is perfect, when you tied your tie with a V so vicious you want to punch a cop. I want to see you when you’re not feeling great, and you just need 12 people to tap twice to make you feel better. I will assuage your insecurities, and I will mean it. A #selfie does not, to me, mean that you suddenly forgot about social justice.

I want to see the wing of your airplane flying over a completely indistinct landscape that looks like they’d never find your body if you were abducted on the way to the hotel. And I want to see that too, the untouched comforter with the note about not washing your sheets every day to save the planet. Or the neon sign of the motel you’re shacked up in, watching grainy pornography while your travel companion yells at you from behind the bathroom door about the roaches coming out of the drain. And I want to see that #roach, too.

Your new car, your new sunglasses, your new shoes, your new body, your new lover. Tell me about how in love you are. Fuck, show me your #starbucks #latte with the ice slowly melting. The color you painted your nails. What you look like with a 5 o’clock shadow. The perfect martini. Namedrop. Humblebrag. IT’S OKAY TO LIKE YOURSELF SOMETIMES.

It’s your fucking life. And just because you got a smartphone one time and you downloaded apps to it that enabled you to share your life, it doesn’t mean you’re a self-absorbed, vapid asshole who is a part of a selfish, vapid generation. It doesn’t mean you are privileged because you have a piece of technology that is now commonplace in our country, and it doesn’t mean that you don’t help people and don’t care about people. It doesn’t make you a monster to have nice things some of the time. Just because you read eight articles about Miley Cyrus’ butt, I believe you probably still know what’s going on in Syria and have opinions about it, and I care about those opinions despite the fact that you are probably not the #president. Sometimes, you can even use the Internet to make a difference.

Tell me who you’re voting for. Tell me what you just watched. Tell me what you think is going to happen on the season finale of Breaking Bad. Complain. Love. Like. Share. Undress. Redress. Use acronyms instead of words, make a tpyo, IDGAF.

We’re not burying time capsules because our time capsule is a vast, unfathomable, intangible depth. This is it. If you saw a 70-year-old couple reading the paper in a diner, you’d assume they were catching up on the news, so if you see a 20-something couple on their phones in the same diner, it doesn’t become SO SAD how we don’t connect anymore. THIS IS HOW WE CONNECT. When they’re apart, they probably sext with the skill of a cinematographer. Do you know we had to use boats to send drawings of our genitals to each other? I mean, I imagine that happened. And if you’re a woman, masturbating requires the exact same muscle movement that it takes to scroll through the banality of your feed from something you don’t like to the next thing, so if you don’t like something you can FUCK YOURSELF it away.

Post enough #selfies, and I might wanna meet you for a #coffee and post my location on #foursquare, just in case someone else wants to join us. And if you stalk me and you kill me, then that’s your problem, weirdo, but please #instagram my #corpse because I will be unable to take a #selfie at that point, so IT IS ONLY FAIR.

This is the future.