The two types of happiness

My shpiel on why I haven't written in a while: 1) I actually half forgot I had one and got really excited when I remembered, 2) my blog doesn’t help fund my shoe addiction, 3) I feel a little shy about having a blog to begin with.

How un-Amurrican of me, right? Like, my thoughts matter and I want them heard. But the truth is, when you’re a white, non-binary, (upper?) middle-class female, no one cares about your narrative. Except for my mom. She totally cares about my narrative. Hi mom!

The Internet (or rather entitled millennials) push out content at a rate too rapid for us #peasants to digest. Not only has the authenticity of content suffered as a result, but anyone and their dog with a WordPress password can label themselves a "writer", a badge of honour that so many of us have toiled after and cried for and endured insomnia for (way too many prepositions at the end of clauses, will fix eventually).

The whole Internet is just one giant Mean Girls cafeteria discussion and everyone is trying to speak louder than the next guy. I don’t want to wear pink on Wednesdays! I want to wear pink EVERY DAY! I’m sure your dad has sat you down at the dinner table one night and been like, “So, kids, what’s new on the Internet these days? A lot of garbage, eh?” Hi dad! Sifting through it all is exhausting and makes me want to retire early. You were right. 

That’s why I conducted a little experiment with myself: I decided to go to a relatively big deal of a thing and not write about it. Last night, my friend Nick took me to the Sex Tape movie world premiere (starring Cameron Diaz and Jason Segel) at the Regency Village Theatre in Downtown LA.

There are celebrities behind me on a red carpet. Could I see a thing? No. Did I care? Also no. Is this what emancipation feels like? Yes.

Enjoying things from a consumerist lens and then from that of a publishing one is kind of a schizophrenic experience. You get to be happy both ways, but as a consumer, you can double-fist popcorn AND Diet Coke while snort-laughing at the movie’s terrible sex jokes, and as a reporter, you tend to be busy panicking that your recording app will run out of space, that you’re going $40 over your data limit fact checking important things on Safari like “New Girl show Hannah Simon is it Seesee or Cece?” and worrying that there is probably maybe definitely coral lipstick on your teeth while interviewing a celebrity. Both yield different forms of happiness, ones that I would have to oscillate between in order to hit that sweet spot.

Hannah Simone (Cece) from New Girl is the ultimate sweetheart. "Oh my God! I'm going to get my boobs all over you!" she said, panicking at my height in comparison to hers. Here I am on stilts/tippee toes. Editor's note: This is from the same night, I just had to run to the car to change outfits because pencil skirts are LITERALLY the Houdini-straight jackets of fashion and why anyone would submit themselves to that kind of torture I don't know.

In any industry, it's important to go off-duty to renew the thrill of getting back into the game. Like rest days from the gym. BUT WHAT ARE REST DAYS EVEN. SLEEP WHEN I’M DEAD?

Suffice to say, I felt very guilty not compiling a best-dressed list, or some philosophical analysis about why couples make sex tapes in the first place (Jack Black in the movie has the answer, btw. Go see it July 18). Oddly, publishing — as opposed to consumerism — is my guiltiest of the guilty pleasures. It’s hard for me to demonstrate restraint when all I want to do is contribute to the Internet’s muddled discourse, noise and “garbage” your father so fondly talks about at the dinner table.