I was told this morning via text that because I’ve stuck with Project Me that I’m a “huge fucking success,” which only means that we all have our own definitions of what huge fucking successes look like.
The first article I read this morning “Quit Your Job,” about midlife (still slightly in denial) career shifts, was greatly needed, if only in theory, because I just can’t do what I’m doing anymore. (No, actually, the first thing I read was “You Call It Burnout. These Scientists Might Call It Depression,” but that was more of a blog post if we’re being technical but what does a blog even mean anymore?)
Burnout and lack of success aside, today wouldn’t be the first time I’ve questioned the purpose of a personal blog in the age of Facebook and Instagram. Clearly, though, it’s for posting things you don’t want commented upon.
I wouldn’t put such a boobalicious photo on those platforms because I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was trying to draw attention to my figure, let alone show it off. I just like this photo taken of me while getting ready for a party last weekend enough to put it somewhere besides my hard drive, not to fish for “likes.”
Facebook and Instagram is where I put my Sizzler selfies, duh.