For the fifth time this morning I’ve sat down with my laptop only to find out that that great idea I had for a post ends after the first sentence.
What a waste of time. Stupid brain. I had to interrupt my Facebook stalking session in order to open a whole other writing program. Jerk.
Not that I was deep into my morning routine, which includes at least half and hour of scrolling through every account of all my social media to see what both the good word and the tea for the day is. I’ve noticed that I’ve developed a social media pattern, based on the amount of reinforcement I get from each network:
Facebook: 10 minutes, if there is nothing going on with the Candice Lola fan page.
Personal Instagram: 7 minutes.
Blog Instagram (@candice_lola): 5 minutes (until it grows probably)
Personal Twitter: 5 minutes, if there is no fresh tea
Facebook again (3 minutes)
Blog Twitter (@candice_lola): 7 minutes (in attempt to grow it)
Old blog Twitter (@kissmycurls) 3 minutes (for old times sake).
How many minutes is that? I’d count on my fingers but I’m already typing with them.
I’ve tried many things to shave this extensive wake-n-surf time down. I’ve deleted social media apps. Deactivated my accounts. Chastised myself. Told myself that thanks to the hyperconnected world we live in I can check the medias on the way to work. No results. The only thing that has worked has been to wake up at least 40 30 20 minutes earlier in order to accommodate my surfing.
If you ask my Dad, this world is going to crap (or hell, depending on what day of the week it is) with gasoline drawers on because we’ve now accepted “everything”. If you ask my Mom this world is going down (or to shit, depending on who is around) because we can’t stop talking about or stay out of everyone’s business (an issue she had before social media, but I digress). My contrarian friends say that social media is ruining us, everyone is looking down at their phones instead of at each other, falling down subway stairs and whatnot, because they are so busy trying to grab the attention of someone on the web that they are ignoring what’s right in front of them. Social media has opened us up to a bunch of phonies, they tell me, who are different behind a screen than they are in person, and why not just say that shit to my face, you yellow-bellied keyboard thug.
I’m not a yellow-belly. I’m a whatever-color-is-considered-tough belly (red?).
But I am addicted to connectedness, and even more addicted to information.
Also to independence.
And to unbottlenecked opinions, anti-status quo, challenging of the mainstream, and natural hair tutorials.
And makeup tutorials for dark skin.
And people with unique comedic talent.
….and the occasional internet debate.
Social media puts all of that right at my fingertips.
So different from my childhood, where very few deviations from common stereotypes or phenotypes were tolerated. It was bad enough that I was the last girl in my class to get my hair relaxed, let alone the secret facts that I read the dictionary for fun, practiced talking to important people in the mirror, and wrote weird sad stories in my Hello Kitty diary. Let alone that I was a tomboy who not only didn’t mind makeup, but loved it, but was socialized to think that wearing makeup meant you needed makeup, and that made you worth less. Never mind that when I started developing I started hiding my figure, even though I wanted to wear shorts and tanks and cute things that showed of my teenage tummy (very unbecoming of a young lady raised in modesty, I was told in more than one way by more than one person). You are doing it for boys, and because when you are 13 you don’t argue with my father I went back to my oversized T-shirts.
Social media has taught me that I wasn’t alone back then.
It’s taught me that I am not alone now, either. Not in the social issues that I am passionate about, or my issues with the zeitgeist that socialized me, or my love for circus, or writing, or cooking, or eating tacos. There are other people who prefer their hair nappy, their news raw, and their media diverse. Social media has introduced to me studies that tell me that I’m not lazy because I’d prefer to work creatively at night, that I’m not fake because sometimes I’m social and sometimes I’m not, that I’m not a slut if I wear neon makeup with a midriff baring outfit to match. I’m an individual. And that is finally allowed.
Binaries are breaking down and like with any change, some people are uncomfortable.
Cool. Weird.
Smart. Dumb.
Racist. Not Racist.
Male. Female.
Black. White.
Mixing into a gorgeous shade of grey that people who were able to play the system before are finding hard to navigate. Now you don’t really have to fit into a category, you can stretch out and become a real boy so to speak, but if your muscles have atrophied from stuffing yourself into a box you never quit fit into that might be scary for you.
Don’t be scared. Just breath. Stretch. Scroll.
Enjoy the sound of your joints cracking.
That’s the sweet sound of freedom, my Facebook friend.
© Candice Lola. All Rights Reserved. Privacy Policy.
Site by Komposition.