We don’t always write about the people who flatter themselves thinking we do.
We don’t always shine a spotlight on every story.
I tell her, Ive got clinical depression.
ari’s instagram
Thanks for the GENETIC MAKE UP, MOTHER.
I kid, I kid.
I mean, not about the depression part.
Thats not a joke.
I usually tell her something about people enjoying other peoples misery.
Were all very into rubbernecking heartbreak and tragedy, going allRear Windowand watching people from a comfortable distance.
ari’s instagram
Watching sad movies and listening to sad songs and crying with fictional TV characters.
Maybe were a little hardwired to enjoy it.
Or find comfort in it.
It is, after all, something universal.
The feeling of loneliness, of fear, of melancholy.
I also tell her when I write happy things, no one cares.
I care, but they dont!!!
My mom says, Im sure thats not true!
The audience wants to feel understood.
They want to feel better about their own pain, so they go searching for those who share.
Or those who have it worse.
I write something weepy about an ex?
Oh, they go nuts.
The crowd fucking roars.
Its validation that theyre not alone.
Happiness doesnt need that kind of validation.
Happy people are just..happy.
Theres no need for someone to package it back to you.
He tells me, Dont write about me.
Automatically, I say, Okay.
Only later do I think about what this means.
Only later do I realize how stifling this is.
Never do I set out to hurt anyone.
Never do I write to be vindictive.
Still, I have a story.
Am I not allowed to share that?
Am I not allowed to speak it out loud?
I catch myself pausing before letting my fingers hit the keyboard.
I know hes still reading.
I know hes still checking in.
I know hes looking.
Dont write about me.
This is the internet writers dilemma.
What do you do when your career, your paycheck, your passion involves sharing your life?
Is this kind of honesty only reserved for fictional Carrie Bradshaw?
Where is the line?
How much should you say?
What should you keep locked inside?
I dont have the answers.
I am constantly second guessing myself.
Im still not sure how much of that is left-over from him.
How much of that is me wanting him to regret our last convo.
We dont always write about the people who flatter themselves thinking we do.
We dont always shine a spotlight on every story.
First and foremost, we are creatives.
I mean, not really.
I fucking love you, Internet.
But we existed before you.
We wrote poems on napkins.
We constructed songs in backseats.
Im a professional oversharer.
I always have been.
I extrapolate my feelings.
Like, listen I competed on a slam poetry team in college!
Do you know what that entails?
Sharing is just part of me.
Millennials are ridiculed for this need to overshare.
This need to document every moment.
As children, were taught to share.
Were told its an incredible gift.
And I still choose to think like that.
Im a professional oversharer.
I wouldnt have it any other way.
