Nobody ever tells you just how exhausting an excessively hedonistic and connected lifestyle is.

It’s doubly exhausting if you’re an introverted sonofabitch like me, but I just don’t have the heart to tell her that.

See, she’s the type of girl who honestly believes that in this particular age, the digital age of social networking, each one of us is a celebrity – the rest of the world is watching and scrutinizing our every move. She burns her smartphone’s memory in pictures of her and her friends, myself included, all of us with drinks in one hand and blunts in the other. “We’re just having a good time!” She says with a cloying enthusiasm.

Don’t get me wrong – I love getting fucked up just as much as anyone else given the unfortunate designation “millenial.”

It’s the constant barrage of other people that gets to me. And the drinking wears on you – ever have a two day hangover? It’s not a fucking picnic.

Especially not when on Saturday night, you had a bottle of Black Velvet, then spent the next 45 minutes or so in some stranger’s bathroom wishing that A) You hadn’t decided to go with lo-mein for dinner, and B) you hadn’t decided to down an entire bottle of cheap Canadian whisky without any assistance (Though, she was there in the bathroom, for moral support, while I atoned for my sins), and THEN,at 11:15 AM, you force yourself out of bed so that the two of you can go to goddamn brunch, where you are too busy staving off a gastro-intestinal insurgency to even think about eating, and not only that, you’re forced to endure her (your) friends guzzling Mimosas recapping last night’s proceedings, as if you hadn’t been there.

Hair of the dog, nothin’.

And of course – OF COURSE – everyone has to take pictures of whatever the hell graces their plates and upload the results to their individual Instagrams because we’re celebrities, right? Inquiring minds want to know what we’re eating.

I’m not even a brunch person to begin with. I’d rather have stayed in bed for another couple of hours. We could have spent the day in our PJs smoking grass and watching Netflix, but she really really wanted to go to brunch. Viewers don’t want to see a couple of twentysomethings get high and watch television.

I really really wish that she understood how I need some time away from the public eye, away from Instagram and Facebook and whatever the hell else the kids are logging into these days.

I need time away from the parties and clubs and reenactments of scenes from Hip Hop music videos.

I need time away from the drama, this forcing a story onto regular, everyday, ordinary life.

I need time away from everyone, except her of course.

I like it better when it’s just me and her.

But that scenario is increasingly rare, all eyes are on her. She’s got to keep her fans happy.

As it stands, the only time she allots for our privacy is whenever we fuck.

But I suspect she’ll be devoting a blog to that soon.

-r. miller


2 thoughts on “(dis)Connected

  1. haha this is sooo true. I can’t even handle it…. one of the first posts I ever wrote was about weekends and how I feel so alienated from my peers because I wish there were other things that were socially acceptable to do other than get drunk and be stupid

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