Alley Insider touched upon a spectre that haunts all of us with tumblr accounts: getting a hate re-blog. Since all of the staff writers at PSI are lusted after and lauded we’ve been spared the acerbic jabs dealt out by these fiendish foes. (oh wait!)
And as much as we all secretly live in fear of having some earnest post of ours reblogged and ridiculed on 80 different dashboards, let’s face it :this is the type of self-policing we need, people. This curbs the population of oversharers. For every oversharing spider there is an venomous hating toad. They keep the delicate balance of the tumblr foodchain.
If you want a kumbaya circle jerk of support and understanding, try livejournal.
Wouldn’t your office cube be a more tranquil place if you didn’t know about the Julia Alison’s bowel movements or the anal proclivities of graphic designers?
This is the public spanking the oversharers cry out for. One of the most odious parts of the Millenial generation is the idea that we all have a personal brand that deserves to be developed and broadcast. The anonybloggers counter with the other deliciously malevolent strain in our generation: GET OFF THE FUCKING STAGE. Both are necessary. Both feed the the internet circle of life! As much as we’re excited about buying oversharer extraordinaire Emily Gould’s new book (we are! she can write!) we also agree with this sentiment
From trolling tumblr trainwrecks:
How dare they brag about how many followers they have, as if that isn’t empty self-perpetuating validation? How dare they splash their shitty, fucked up ideas about gender and violence and politics and culture and grammar and themselves all over tumblr, because WE MIGHT ACCIDENTALLY FUCKING READ IT AND HAVE AN ANEURYSM OVER WHAT FUCKTARDS YOU ALL ARE.
Get a fucking clue. No one owes you anything. You don’t owe anyone anything.
This type of anonymous scolding also serves as polishing school for the young boys and girls of the 2.0 world. Much like the way an overzealous nun would rapt young schoolchildren on the knuckles with a bloody ruler.
For girls who think posting a picture of themselves with the love splatter of an ivy leaguer on their face a is empowering and interesting, anonybloggers teaches them that its not. It should also teach them the irreplaceable value of a fucking moleskin journal.
For the testicle laden young men who use social networking as a tool to hookup with young “emotional” females watch the fuck out. Tumblr troll ladies serve as the corrective blogoptiocon. The only way to be sure there are no bad stories going around about you is to be sure there are no bad stories to tell.
And if you don’t like it then just don’t follow, fucktard.
Ever notice how Vice’s Do’s and Don’ts have become largely indistinguishable? Nobody expects the Spanish inquisition!
It’s all too much. I still don’t know who to blame for keffiyeh-clad hipsters ending posts with the hip hop sign-off “word”.
Open letter to the debutards, future housewives of some city, whatever… baby:
(Caution, this is erotic stream of consciousness poetry, poorly written and edited. It could make you go blind.)
I do know and understand the presence of those who, in the future, will be working in NYC at some kind of goddamn Jackie-0-esque publishing position… yes, those lovely ones, the debutards of today, the educated housewives of tomorrow, those whose shit does not stink now, nor likely will not in the future, those ones… yes, the dress, the opera, feeling like a princess, but really… are they anything more than the traditional high dollar whore with apple notebook jammed in their virgin until marriage vaginas… we do love you, it’s not that you’re not educated, better writers and more well adjusted and connected than I ever will be, but can you tell me who Elliott Smith is…? Can you blog about the latest variation of the nasty sanchez? Will you stick a tic tac in it just before I eat you out on vacation / spring break / whatever. Me and you, lovelies, spring ‘09, you have a rendezvous with destiny. I’ll be the thirty something redneck with the big dick and the good x, you’ll be the debutard who wants only one more fling with a big dick before you marry somebody the third, somebody the fourth, or your congressional page boyfriend with the mediocre penis and mediocre skill in using it. It’s poetic irony that I, the one you make fun of, I am the man who can make you cum. See, there is such a thing as karma. Lick your lips… bitches. Will your man ever show you this kind of illiterate boner passion? No. Never. Don’t hate me because I’m white trash beautiful, dangerous in your mind, the forbidden fruit. Oh yeah.
Know you this though, debu-whores, I will never cuddle you when it’s over, neither you nor I want that, it is love that can never be for us. Love is a word you reserve for him. Fuck is my word. I am the one who brings the filthy out of you, the one that lets you know, he’s not doing it right. Enjoy the opera. I’ll be drinking beer and sniffing pills up my nose. The ringing in my ears is symphony. You know you can’t always wonder what it’s like to take a walk on the wildside forever. That’s why we invented spring break. That’s why.
@ wonk:
whenever I want to find “the line” and consider crossing it, I read your comments and realize that it was annihilated. I thank you.
I call that one: “E-Sodom and Gomorrah”. I am your pillar of salt in the bubble gum popping blog world of meghan mccain wannabes. I know it’s too much at times, but I do it for the same reason that lady had the impulse to sling elephant shit all over the paintings of Mary and call it art. Remember that? Well, maybe I’m not that creative. My point is though, I too get tired of reading about how great someone is doing, their trip to the opera, all that. Am I the poison? Are they? If they are, then I am the anti-venom. See, I’m a healer. Sorry if you were offended. (honestly)
@ wonk.
Eat a bag of dicks with your modesty. You are cranberry to our UTI
P.S. The point of that art, the elephant shit on the paintings of Mary was, that’s NOT Mary, but our idol of her. That point was missed. They don’t mind when you fuck with their God, but if you fuck with their idol, then there is hell to pay. What are their blogs really? The glamorized idol of themselves, not the real them, the real them is the girl from spring break. They are all 2 seconds away from being on the next “girls gone wild”. It’s too easy to hurt them, maybe that’s why it’s wrong?
P.S.S. (last explanation, I promise)
If their blogs are that, the glamorized idol of themselves. Then, what is this? This, for me anyway, is the bathroom wall of the men’s room. This is where I leave something beautiful or ugly for all to read privately. This, the anti-blog, is our electric bathroom wall. It’s our public private place. See, this is as clandestine as a bathroom wall. I love it. It’s funny though, because I’ve seen really inspired things on bathroom walls. While some people merely draw erect penises, boobs, or write a poem about a man from nantucket… others, they draw the rueben-esque picture of their wife from memory. Why? Because that’s what a woman looks like. For all those who were writing about which fraternity sucks, whatever, there was someone inspired, even there. Honestly, I think it was my English teacher. Too bad I didn’t learn more about when to use an ellipse, comma splices, run on sentences, you know… all the shit I do really poorly. I don’t though think that God gives one person everything. Have you ever met a writer who was also an editor? That’s why I don’t believe them, the meghan mccain blogette girls of the world. God doesn’t give somebody everything. They would have you believe it though. They would. It is too easy to smash them. That’s why I’m wrong for it. It feels good to be bad.