Lyndon Keane is in pain.
Moments of profound clarity can come in the oddest ways and at the most inopportune times. Mine came after inadvertently squirting lime juice into my eye while trying to shove what was apparently too big a wedge of the fruit into a bottle of Canadian Club & Cola.
As I danced around my kitchen (read: ran around in circles while rubbing my eyes and flailing my arms), I tried to work out how to best handle the pain that is citrus to the cornea. Should I wash it out, or should I do what so many of my–and your–Facebook friends do, and make social networking my first port of call for all of life’s little moments? One of my friends saw fit to inform everyone via a brief update that she was eating toast for lunch; surely physically assaulting myself with a green sphere of pain warranted a mention. Should I become flippant about fruit on Facebook? What about tut-tutting Tahitian lime via Twitter?
It was at that point I had my epiphany:
Even if I did post something, why would anyone care? Do people who post a dozen status updates a day about nothing actually think that others find them amusing, or even worthy of a second of consideration?
Sure, I was partially blind in my right eye and probably in need of medical attention, but as I pondered the “post about toast” and associated revelation about people not caring, it felt like I’d reached philosophical maturity.
Author’s note: Philosophical maturity feels like citric acid is burning a hole through your eye, with the intention of head-butting your retina.
Partly because of the instant audience that social networking platforms provide, we have become a society that is under the delusion that the world deserves–and apparently, wants–to know every detail about our lives. People seem to think that they are more exciting than they actually are, and the result is that they are sharing every boring, painfully nauseating facet of their monochromatically dull lives.
Here’s the sad reality: You are boring.
I came in pretty late on the whole Facebook tidal wave, somewhere around 2009, but at that stage people only posted interesting stuff. A quote. A song. Something amusing that had happened to them during the day. Jump forward 3 years, and with the advent of Twitter and the myriad of other social media platforms, every man and their dog (literally: pets have Facebook profiles now) thinks that they have a licence to post drivel. Boring drivel. Don’t believe me? It’s reached a point where we can categorise the inane rants into four specific types.
“What I’m eating”
Toast. With jam. Wow, when are you opening your restaurant in Paris? I’m seeing Michelin stars in your future.
NEW RULE: Unless you are eating grilled unicorn with mashed potato and a garlic dodo sauce, we don’t want to know.
“What I’m doing”
Watching TV. You’re kidding? I’ve heard about them electric boxes of magic, but I’ve never actually seen one.
Reading. Really, you’re literate?
NEW RULE: Unless you are about to be launched to the moon, are doing shots with Charlie Sheen or have found Jimmy Hoffa’s body, move right along and don’t bore us to death.
“What I’m pissed off at”
Pissed off because your morning caramel latte isn’t as amazing as it normally is? Have you considered telling the barista? Angry at [insert relevant deity]? I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but omnipotent beings don’t tweet. Disgruntled with the weather? You do realise clouds are inanimate objects, don’t you?
NEW RULE: Stop whinging. End of discussion.
“Monosyllabic assessment of how I’m feeling”
This is my favourite category. And yes, I use the term with ironic creative licence.
Barry McWhinge is bored. Thanks to you, so am I now.
Betty O’Painful is sad. It makes me sad that I know you.
Barry McWhinge is hungry. How about devoting some time to eating instead of whinging about how your tummy is rumbling? At least that way, you can regale the world with a “What I’m eating” update.
Barry McWhinge is tired. I think we covered this one when you were 3 years old: If you’re tired, go to bed.
Barry McWhinge is drunk. I wish I was too, but there’s no amount of vodka and peppermint schnapps that will make you even remotely entertaining.
Oh, and just so you know, I had toast today. With Vegemite. I was going to watch a DVD, but was angry because the cafe stuffed up my affogato. So I didn’t watch anything.
Lyndon Keane is apathetic.
When Lyndon Keane isn’t blogging at The Dissemination of Thought, you will find him at either a cafe, casino or bar. Or a magical place that has blackjack, vodka and triple-shot lattes under the one roof: his Utopia. He is currently completing an undergraduate degree in journalism, and believes that pancakes make study easier, even though they don’t relieve his continuing apathy.