Okay, real talk for a sec.
Since I started blogging, I’ve been called dramatic and a complainer on more than one occasion. To be honest, I totally get it. I tend to be over the top or to one extreme, but it’s intentional. When I choose to write about my “life” I’m really just taking a single moment or experience, putting it under a microscope, and sharing it with you. My whole life isn’t, like, THIS IS HARD AND IT SUCKS.
I write the kind of material that I enjoy reading, you know what I mean? I haaaate reading fluffy, happy, my-life-is-perfect blogs (or knowing those kind of people in real life.) It’s boring, and honestly makes me kind of uncomfortable. Like being in a fancy restaurant when all I really want is chicken tenders and fries.
If I wanted to believe that I was the only person in the world who spent her weekend binging OITNB covered in chip crumbs and/or was the only person who cannot figure out her good angle for a selfie, I’d stick to Instagram.
Here’s the thing: I think I have a really good life. Like, my life is so good I can’t even believe it sometimes. I’m hashtag blessed, man.
But if that was the angle of my blog, I’d be criticized for bragging. And to me, that’s THE WORST. In my opinion, the tackiest thing someone can be is a braggart.
Social media gives everyone the perfect opportunity to let the world view your life — but only the pretty parts. And I think that is such bull shit. Sure, my life is good, and yours probably is, too, but so what? I have no interest in having a pissing contest with the entire world about the pretty parts.
I do have an interest in connecting and relating to people, to real life humans who mess up and have bad days and who feel like they don’t have this life thing figured out yet.
I want to know that you tried really hard for something, came up short, but lived to tell the tale. I want to know that you had a bad day and ugly cried on the phone with your mom and then came home and ate cereal for dinner because you just couldn’t “adult” for one more minute that day. I want to know that you’re a parent who sometimes lets ketchup count as a veggie or can’t remember when you last bathed your infant (because how dirty can they get, really?)
I won’t think you’re a complainer for talking about your particular struggle (even if I can’t relate) and I won’t judge you for being dramatic when you tell me your day was thee worst ever (even though you and I both know it’ll all be fine after a good cry and a good night’s sleep.)
The worst I’ll do is think you’re human and want to be your friend.