Ages ago when MySpace was rampant in the internet streets, I used to be one of those girls. You know, passive-aggressively firing shots at men who’ve failed me via status updates, and blog posts. I went out of my way to “indirectly” make them feel stupid in the most blatant manner, only to make up with them a day or two later *blank stare*. Obviously, I was the only fool in this equation.
Since then, I’ve learned to hold my tongue and guard my pen, and find myself backspacing sentences or trashing posts more often than not. Granted, I still include personal stories on this very website, but I’m more tactful, respectful, and generalize posts to a point where only those who I’ve actually spoke to about the matter know what I’m talking about. More importantly, the people I’m writing about have heard it straight from the scorned bitch’s mouth prior.
Living in a world where you can watch an entire boxing match by reading someones Twitter feed, the ways one can exploit themselves are endless. And I find myself rubber-necking these verbal train wrecks. I know, I know – I’m an asshole. But believe me when I say they make it so easy for me to be. Usually, those who are behind the drivers seat are women (insert sexist women can’t drive joke here). While I always empathize, I also almost always face-palm in embarrassment by the way some women choose to represent themselves. Says the girl who writes about dicks and lube every Wednesday.
Honestly? I admire some of you. Your willingness to give so much of yourselves to those who don’t deserve so much as an Instagram “like” from you only reflects your capacity to love and be loved. Moreover, your strength and tenacity to bounce back from the fall, and jump again. You share a piece of your soul that I could never cut and serve to complete strangers to judge. You don’t give a fuck, and it’s commendable. But at the same time, you have to remember that not everyone is worthy of that piece. I promise.
I no longer wear my heart on my sleeve … or on my timeline for that matter. Hell, I don’t need to. When I love, I love so hard it seeps through the fabric for the rest of the world to see anyway. The key is to make sure the person you’re bleeding for rushes to your side to patch things up. And maybe, just maybe lay off the social media vents. Let me go ahead and say what everyone else is thinking anyway:
You be doing too much You look fucking crazy Consider channeling your frustrations in a more productive manner.