I'm pretty sure I have Premenstrual Dysmorphic Diet-Pepsi-obsessed Dayquil-swilling Distemper Disorder. Why? Well, I'm pounding even more of the aspartame treat than ever, my throat is fucking sore, my boobs have hurt for a week and I really can't stand anyone nowadays. Especially internet commenters.
Yeah, I know. "Who cares?"
I CARE. I work a boring desk job in which I have nothing to do half the day. So I read. A lot. I read Jezebel. All day long.
So the other day, this big Jez shitstorm hit, when one of the editors published an article on sexual consent that all the humorless feminists obviously wouldn't agree with, and the commenters lost their goddamn minds. You'd think they'd never encountered life outside of an encapsulated sounding board, where men can be total assholes and people don't always share your opinions. The idea that they'd even have to face a point of view not in line with their own - and ARGUE its merits - made these women more inflamed than a hemorrhoid.
The editor apologized, noting that she put the post up right before the holiday and wasn't as attentive to the reaction as she should have been. The commenters weren't going to hear it. Someone actually said, "You couldn't do your job because it was a HOLIDAY?" How dare she travel to go spend time with her family on a national holiday when people on the internet are MAD?! The editor then posted a counterpoint article. It wasn't good enough.
So anyway, the content of the original piece was fairly vague and stupid - some American guy goes to Paris, wonders why American chicks aren't as hot and easy as French ladies, and says that maybe we USians sanitize our sex a bit too much. I didn't much care for the article, and I thought it was poorly written. I thought the guy sounded like a douchebag with a fixation on European women. He could have had a point and started a real discussion, but fell short.
But more than anything, the entitlement of these internet lurkers made me want to vomit.
The world does not fucking revolve around you. Somebody wrote something you don't like? Tough fucking shit. The Gawker Media Corporation is not beholden to you and your opinions. The editors of a web magazine do not owe you anything. If anything, they're beholden to the people who buy advertising on their site and pay their bills. People were seriously saying "I am not satisfied with this. I am owed an apology."
Really. REALLY?! You're that mad about the fucking internet? Do you know how many people in the world don't use the internet? ALMOST FIVE BILLION. Do you treat everyone you encounter in your real life like that? Oh, wait, I forgot. You don't have a real life. You spend six hours a day asking people you'll never meet what you should do about that internship that you really wanted but didn't get.
Maybe that's the scourge of the modern age - absolute and utter narcissism. There are actually people out there believing a company that's the second largest online newspaper in the world should bow down, admit defeat, and let the 200 people who comment regularly control the content that tens of thousands of people read every hour. It goes beyond this to every element of our lives - people who make kissy faces in their Facebook profile pictures which they change twice a day, friends who get pissed off because you don't respond to their text messages immediately, women who are average weight and height and attractiveness and think they're models. I'm just so tired of the fact that everyone in my generation thinks they're some big fucking star.
I'm truly sorry, really I am, but you're going to work a boring job for 45 years. You're going to pop out a couple of mediocre children, you're going to marry someone who's going to get fat and bald, and your idea of a good time will end up being white zinfandel and a U2 cover band. You're not going to go great places and do great things. You're not going to drive a Porsche, you're not going to attend fancy galas, and when you die, there will be but a small crowd of people there to see you into the ground. Just give it up.
Obviously everything isn't about you. It's about me.