According to My Medium Stats, I Died Six Months Ago

At some point in the last 20 years, someone smart likely said:

“You should avoid interacting with the online world if your sense of self-worth is standing on the edge of the toilet threatening to jump in.”

If no one has ever said that then I’m not surprised because, as I re-read it, it sounds stupid.

Nonetheless, I’m a prime example of why the aforementioned non-quote is relevant: I’m one of maybe three people under the age of 50 who have never created a Facebook account. For me, it’s mostly out of a fear that my friends in real life (or “IRL” for my fellow kids) wouldn’t want to be associated with me online. While no one has ever said to my face “Look, we’re just afraid you’ll be even weirder and more unfunny on Facebook,” I have an internal monologue that’s just a retelling of all the worst parts of Junior High Phys Ed, which, at its core, is essentially the same message.

So if I can’t muster the strength to do Facebook for fear of rejection or good old-fashioned neglect (also because I hate it and think it’s one of the four horsemen or… something, something, then the apes took over), then why the hell would I be all Joe-fucking-cool about having flatlined on Medium?

I say this because… I’m pathetic. Who else stares at their stats like a jilted bride still waiting at the altar three days later because she expects that asshole to come walking down the aisle? Any second now and he’ll be here. Probably just got stuck in traffic. < Reapplies lipstick to entire face>

In case I wasn’t clear, I’m the jilted bride. Except in my case, NO ONE FUCKING PROPOSED TO ME. I just got this stupid idea that if I stood around in an ugly white dress looking desperate and angry, some guy might show up and say, “Hey! You look miserable. Let’s do this.” In other words, recommend my post to others ad infinitum. Is that really such a terrible thing to want? Can’t I just stand here, do nothing, and be loved?!?

I think my little experiment with Medium has accidentally tapped into some deep-seated fears I developed in my late twenties when I was very, very single and now, beyond my control, this has degenerated into a sort of Bridgette Jones’ Diary of my creative disappointments. And in this particular case, yes, Medium is Hugh Grant.

So to make myself feel better, I’d like to assume — with absolutely zero evidence to back this up — that I am not the only person who has created a blog and then within the first two minutes of posting immediately checked and re-checked to see if anyone has read anything and THEN attempted to distract him or herself by defiantly closing the laptop and saying “This is silly. I have more important things to do, like…uh…” and immediately re-opening the laptop to check again because it took nine seconds to say that and some people read really fast.

We all do that right? Right?

I’ve been here 12 days, people! Is it too soon to freak out? ’Cause I’m freaking out.

Have you ever lost a follower on Medium? After 4 days? Four days of posting your heart out and then suddenly this guy thinks he can just up and not call — errr, I mean, “unfollow” you! Sure, he’s totally within his rights to do so, but then don’t act all surprised if I have flashbacks to prom and my face breaks out.

I mean it’s not like I have an obsessive need for validation. I will happily sit here, not blog, and just read random Wikipedia entries until I die of a degenerative stomach disease from eating too many fried foods (I mean Vodka). It’s just that now that it’s out there, now that I took the plunge and posted something, validation — well, positive validation — is preferable to the sound of all those damn Internet crickets.

So at this point, I’m rethinking my entire life. Every single decision I’ve made up to now. Maybe I didn’t take fourth grad math seriously enough. Maybe I should have read ALL of Lord of the Flies (I just assumed the kids eventually established a fully-inclusive system of Democratic Socialism and took turns complimenting each other until they were rescued).

Maybe dad was right, I should stick with what I know: sitting at a desk, pretending to make spreadsheets, while quietly planning my own death.

Maybe it’s better for everyone if I just save these deranged little “soliloquies” for some spiral notebook I keep hidden under a stack of old Seventeen magazines. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to punish myself for thinking I had anything worth sharing online (i.e., I can always watch reruns of Two and a Half Men until I gouge out my eyes).

But, if I’m really honest, despite my near-death experience on Medium, I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet. I still have a choice. I can become that quirky spinster aunt who never smiles because she just gave up and stopped brushing her teeth, or someone needs to marry me.

Don’t worry, it’s not just you; I stopped making sense many, many paragraphs ago.

I think what I’m trying to say is: I need to write more better, then get much people to follow. No… wait.

I need to type words making sense and read things. Dammit! That’s not it.

I need to learn English, then put sentences and like people.

Oh, fuck it.


I post new stuff every Wednesday. Wanna read something else I wrote?

Here: Are You a Kitten or a Grand Piano…?

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.