Sharing Personal Stories on the Internet

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The Internet is ruining my life. Not because I spend too much time on Etsy, or reading about DIY projects I will never make on blogs. It’s because I think everything in life is hilarious, and I want to share it with everyone, all the time. Some of you may think this isn’t a problem. But trust me- it’s ruining my life.

It all started last year, when I wrote a Her Campus blog entry about being “Facebook Official.” In it, I go into (vague) detail about a guy I had dated, and how he sorta-kinda mislead me towards the end of our relationship. I had assumed (like an a**hole) that he would never, ever read the post- because, well he’s a guy and this is Her Campus and he had unfollowed me on Twitter, the only place I exist on the Internet (and the only place where my Her Campus page is linked to me). Well, I guessed wrong. Because he found it, and he read it, and two days later I had an email in my inbox from him ripping me a new one. But he also made some great points- most importantly, that it wasn’t my place to share intimate details of our relationship on the Internet. He was totally right. Who was I to share (VAGUE) details of our relationship to (basically) the online world? Even though I never once mentioned his name or truly intimate details, our story was out there for everyone to read. His story was out there for everyone to read, but only from my point of view, which is totally biased and unfair. So I ate crow, and apologized. Thankfully, he knew and respected me enough to respect my stubbornness and know that I would never take it down. So I didn’t

You’d think I would have learned my lesson.

Recently, I went on a date with a guy who was nice, funny, and kind of weird. Unfortunately, he vocally hated a lot of the things I vocally love. The Toy Story trilogy, the Paranormal Activity movies, The Office. Call me shallow, but we all have our deal-breakers. For me, it’s taste in movies and television. And it wasn’t just that he didn’t like these things, it was that he was being incredibly… well, he was a total douche about them. Ranting about how Steve Carrel’s performance is “nothing” compared to Ricky Gervais, and that he only liked Little Miss Sunshine before it was “over exposed.” I didn’t know people like that actually existed. Regardless, I still kissed him and we still talked after… until one day he called me out.

I had tried to find him on the Internet but was unable to. No Twitter, Facebook, or anything. Not even an old MySpace account. So I figured he was just not a social networking person. Boy, was I wrong.

About two weeks after we went out on a date, I texted him to see how he was doing. We were exchanging messages, when I was caught off guard by… well, something I had tweeted. That was clearly about him. And how much he hated Toy Story.

So, I took it with stride. I called him a tweep. Tried to be humorous about it, when in reality I was a little freaked out because he had found me, but I hadn’t found him (despite my amazing creepiness skills which I admit to having) but mostly that he had actually called me out on it.

We haven’t talked since. And he will probably read this and get even more pissed off at me. Because I’m making the same mistake I made with the first Internet Disaster. I’m talking about my personal life on the Internet. Talking about other people on the Internet. But the truth us, I talk about my experiences in plays I write. In the movie I wrote. What the hell is wrong with me?

I justify it as me being a writer. I draw from my personal experiences, emotions, relationships and memories whenever I write. Whether it be, a blog post, a note, a movie, or a play. Everything I pour onto a page is personal. Because, well, the more personal something is, the more beautiful it is. The more honest it is, the better it is.

So I guess what I’ve learned is to not talk about my personal life on the Internet, but here I am doing it again. And I will probably never stop. Because the only man in my life that’s always been there is Writing. And I love him most, and I can’t leave him. So leave me with my Writing if you have to. With him, I won’t be dying alone.

Ugh, how pathetic am I?

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