So a few years ago, you had a blog on Tumblr — back in the days when Tumblr made sense. Well, not “sense,” but at least you could find actual words there, more words than say, could fit into a “lengthy” tweet. That is, in and amongst the endless GIFs, photos and memes of stuff you didn’t get, there were words constructed into multiple, compound sentences, in paragraph form.

In the olden days we called this “written communication.”

Now you visit Tumblr and you’re utterly lost. You ask yourself, “Why is everyone reposting that picture of a woman doing yoga in the desert? Sure, she’s flexible and there’s… cactus. But how many times do we need to repost this shit? Did I miss some great insight the first 59 times it appeared in my feed?”

No one answers. You’re all alone with just the Internet as your mercurial companion. A tear forms in the corner of your eye. In the darkness, a chilling thought occurs, “Am I the dipshit? I am. I am the dipshit.”

Your greatest fear has come true. All this time spent judging other people for being emotionally-stunted and intellectually-void… and the Internet sasses you back with, “No. You are.”

You soon realize everyone on Tumblr is 17. You roll your watery, bloodshot eyes and declare “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Like some old-timer who mistook his childhood stomping grounds for a welcome mat, you recently started posting there again. But now you realize, you can’t go home. Ninety-nine percent of your references are for people between the ages of Medicare and cremated. Everyone wishes you’d quit with all the “werrrds” and just post a damn GIF already. Or type the name “Nicki Minaj” over and over and over again.

Basically, what used to be a “blogging” site has devolved into a shallow, meme-y-fetish cult. And apparently you’re too old and well-adjusted to be there.

YOU BEGIN TO FEEL THE TRUE WEIGHT OF THAT STATEMENT.

You.

Well adjusted.

YOU.

You who couldn’t finish even ONE English-Literature class in college because it involved too much LITERATURE.

You, whose most valuable possession is a Bradford Exchange Commemorative Elvis Presley plate that I, er — I mean, you — bought when you were 13 because, evidently, you were an old Southern woman trapped inside the body of a chubby adolescent.

You, who wrote this sentence and the one before that and the one before that and… etc.

Yooooou.

If you’re too stable for Tumblr then there’s a goddamn problem with the time-space continuum.

See! Now look what you did. You made it all about you. You start off with an important analysis of Tumblr and then suddenly it becomes, “My dad withheld his approval and now I can’t use emojis in my text messages!”

Well-adjusted people don’t take a simple diatribe and twist it until it’s a depressing exploration into their own disturbed psyche!

Did you just say “diatribe”? I think you meant reasoned opinion, silly.

Forget everything I… uh, you said.

Tumblr’s fine.

You just thought there’d be more cat pics.

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