The Science of Getting Over Yourself
Over on LiveJournal (I know, I know, but I beta tested the original platform way back in the SixApart days, I have a soft spot for it), the crazy cat ladies are up in a tizzy over people putting ‘cuts’ (where you have a false link warning the reader that you are talking about houseplants, cats, marriage, bdsm, whatever), and that by clicking on it, they take all responsibility for their own well being brought about from reading your journal. Bear in mind, this is not about a person you added because you both like puppies, only for them to suddenly posting severed heads. This is people who purposely added you for whatever reason, and who are now mad at you. Apparently marriage, children (OH DEAR GOD ESPECIALLY CHILDREN), and anything that makes you happy is now triggering, and you should write your journal appropriately (or just not write about it at all).
Gather round, kids, because Auntie HyperHam is going to tell you why these people are asshats.
I cannot believe it actually has to be said, but your personal journal/blog/vlog/facebook page/twitter stream/whatever the hell you use is YOUR PERSONAL WORDS. It is the modern equivalent of the old fashioned My Little Pony lock and key diary that you let only your bestest of best friend read. It is your safe place to let out your hopes, dreams, thoughts, fears, and ambitions. It is the time capsule of your existence.
Fuck anyone who gripes at you for putting yourself to the page.
Mark Zuckerberg has not, at the time of this writing, figured out how to peel peoples’ eyes open and force anyone associated with you to read every last thing you have written, and while the Russian mafia are busy ruining LJ, I think even they don’t have the manpower to make your feed scroll through every last bit you post. They will be fine.
The people on my various feeds are a wide, diverse group, with many interests. A great deal of things I have in common with them – many, I don’t. So, when I see a bank of 40 instagram photos of dying houseplants, or a slashfic that they have just finished of the cast of “Gunsmoke”, or a finely detailed description of their last spelunking tour, I (being an adult who understands that I do not have to read every damn thing put in front of me), simply goes to the next entry/tweet/blog/etc. They were nice enough to show me their diary, I’m sure as hell not going to shit on it.
“But!” I hear you say “But what if they are going on and on and on about something that makes me truly unhappy” (ie, they are losing weight when you can’t, they found love while you are still alone, they finished that Doctor Who scarf when you can barely get to the yarn store, etc)? Well, then you get off their feed, and do one of two things – if you aren’t irl (in real life) friends, get on with your day. If you are irl friends, get off your damn ass and either pick up the phone or send them an email, and ask them about anything other than their triggering element.
“BUT BUT BUT” you scream, “But what if she’s going on and on about her stupid little sprog, as if I care that she plopped a crotch dropping?” Then. You. STFU. And. Read. This.