What makes a gay heart weep 5th sense levels of Amanda Seyfried tears [how LAME it is to make Mean Girls jokes?] or Heather Duke-esque crocodile tears [how OLD a Heathers joke makes me?] is realizing that social media is totally High School: Part Deaux.
Think about it.
I mean it, really.
Think about it.
When Myspace was trendy [you know, cro magnon days] if you weren't in someone's Top 8, 12 or 64 [they offered so many options to snub] you may as well not even have a page. Of course, the more socially mature folks wouldn't bat an eyelash at this. I? Am so not mature.
I'm a bit neurotic.
Example: While standing in line for her 2008 Such a Pretty Fat Tour I caused Jen Lancaster to snort in laughter because the 2 perky girls ahead of me squealed when they realized I was "that BEN" in her Top 8.
I wish I'd had the adult sensibility to just let it pass unremarked.
I was not.
Jen of course signed the book "For Ben, who is totally in my top 8" (with grins plastered on both our faces).
I was in the Cool Kids Club. I was a Heather. I was totally top 8 material.
Then myspace became the next-big-thing-to-be-passe. [Damn]
Enter the era of Facebook supremacy [member since 2004 when it was just for college kids. YO.] and all of the ridiculous keys and styles "inspired" by Myspace over the last 5 years. It's a tad ... well, ridiculous.
From their popularity games [I have not/am not/nor will not be interested in Farmvile. Okay? Thanks] to the feeding-into-neuroses "Like" button, "Connections" and "Facebook Recommends" links, Facebook is one giant high school. Complete with populars, geeks and bullies.
And bless your heart if you aren't in the right clicque - or the right "click".
Top this off with Tumblr [aside from finding some great dirty photos, what's the point?], Google+ [plus what? I wish I could knock it, but I don't know squat about it] and - my major addiction - Twitter, you have a recipe for a truly Mean Gurls Click.
I hate to say it, but, the number of followers (and ratio of followers to following) seems to carry a lot of weight. Again, wish I could say that I have the self-awareness and maturity to declare that this doesn't bother me. I really do.
But, apparently - say it with me - I don't.
The old I-wasn't-popular-until-Junior-Year-and-was-picked-on-a-LOT-as-a-kid insecurities reared their head recently and I asked my followers to promote me in that atrocious of atrocities: Follow Friday.
Tho' the times I've been a Follow Friday recommendation without hounding someone into it? Well, I may've done a victory dance [complete with Madonna-backing-vocals]. Maybe.
Twitter is like that verbal diarrhea you get in school; when every thought comes pouring out of your mouth because the cool kids are paying attention to you. You extoll the virtues of the VERY boring meal you just ate [yawn] or you rant about the merest minutiae of your daily life [guilty].
My friend (the beautiful and talented novelist and screenwriter) Caprice Crane pointed out, in a recent conversation we had, that she really only uses Twitter to post observational humor or to make jokes about whatever pop culture headline is ripe for the picking.
Translation: she doesn't stoop to the Mean Gurl Click mentality. Caprice has class.
Alas, I don't have her self-control or confidence [or looks, wit, breding or ... well, the list can go on for days]. Self-censoring has never been my forte. More than once my best friend has said I need an editor for daily conversations.
[Apparently TMI isn't always a great place to take conversations in public. Who knew?]
In fact, more than a few of my tweets have been just-shy of assclap-level Mean Gurl.
[Think more Winona Ryder in Heathers, less Shannen Doherty]
Like high school clicques, it's a game you play (or don't).
Play it on your own terms. Be aware that our lives are fodder for pages in a digital Burn Book the Heathers compile.
Watch out you don't become one.