One Day In The Life of Not Being Famous On Social Media

Instanotfame

I was on my way to my homegirl Shennanigans (Shannon) surprise 30th bday party in downtown LA, but before I got there I walked into this cafe to grab a coffee when I saw this girl with her sketchpad out. She was workin on this pic of James Dean I think, or some handsome dead movie star, and so I went up to her and I said

“yo, you didn’t draw that did you?”

She didn’t even really look up from all her Tinder matches to answer me.

“yeah i did”

She was just sittin there with an espresso, which looked like it might tip and stain her entire masterpiece at any moment with her box o’pencils scattered all over this small-ass coffee table with charcoal and erasers and pencils hangin from out the corners of her art box, all of which also seemed like they might take a nose dive onto the floor in total Unorganized Chaos as well…. and here I am at my Blick Art Supply art desk trying to keep the windows closed so the wind doesn’t blow my pencil particles outa place… and here she is doin nothin but just diddle dallying on Bumble swipin left and drawin Picasso’s of better lookin dudes than me.

Bitch was a fuckin genius.

I woulda asked for her number but I’m movin back to New York and figured that all that woulda done is got me strung out on some hot chick sketch genius that was three thousand miles away.

Basically, the point of this opening story is that in one millisecond, I felt like ten million miles behind.  I felt like shit.  I could NEVER draw that fuckin James Dean pic.

Stupid bitch…

Okay, I didn’t mean that.  She was real nice.

But it reminded me that I’m just a normal cool dope type of blogger dude that writes short stories about my life then draws cartoons to illustrate them.  I make no money from this goddam blog, I get ten thousand hate emails per week tellin me what fuckin moron I am, which I kinda enjoy to be honest, and I can’t stop.  I can’t stop blogging.  I’m a fuckin BLOGGIN ADDICT.

I’m addicted.

And I do what most normal bloggers do, I try to get famous so that more people will read my blog (and my book that I just finished). Sad to say, wait, is it?  I dunno, but it’s truthful.

Basically here’s the cycle of not being famous on social media, and the quest to be a part of this elite group of kids that have five million YouTube followers.

It starts about 6PM (social media calendars start in the evening), when I log onto Instagram and go to my sketch hashtags that are neatly placed in my notepad app.  I copy and paste all twenty million of them and position them below my mid-to-average sketches that I am SURE will change the world and post it hoping my life will change.

I get fifteen likes then question my existence.  Then I get temporarily resentful at all the people who follow me that didn’t like my shit, and then I wonder if I should delete all my social media accounts to spite the world, then I realize nobody would care and then I draw another sketch and do it all over again.

I take it a step further.  I gotta work harder, I think to myself.  I gotta go through some ‘meaningful’ hashtag rooms and like and comment on all of them.

I GOTTA MAKE THIS WORK GODDAMMIT.

Never works.

Maybe I don’t deserve any attention?  Yeah, why do I need attention anyway?

PAUSE- then my grandma calls.

“Gregory?”

“Yeah grandma, wuttup?”

“Ya know, (thick brooklyn jewish accent) I had somethin ta tell ya, but I can’t rememba what it is!”

“Well, it’ll come back to you.”

“Ya know, I’ve got this pictcha- do you rememba- well, you were a little kid back then–

At this point I already know where she’s goin… but I patiently let her finish—

“There’s this pictcha of you in my room and you’re in a ski suit in Colorado holdin your arms up as if to tell the world ‘look at me!’ (insert old grandma laugh)”

Then I realize I been seekin attention my whole life then I get sad and then I plan a trip to Alaska.

The emotion passes and I make myself an iced coffee and get jacked up on caffeine and remind myself that I’m no Gandhi or Princess Diana over here, I’m just some dude in Hollywood writin funny blog posts and drawing cartoons.

Then I remember that everyone is the same.

Then I listen to Serial and wonder if I should start a podcast.

Then I check my Facebook.

Then I change my profile in Tinder for the millionth time that hour.

Then I go to Bumble and get excited that some girls wrote me back, but I don’t write back to any of them cause I quickly realize I don’t wanna actually hang out with a strange chick that I don’t know so I never write back and then I write a blog post about Tinder, realize I need a sketch to go along with it, then the whole process starts allllll over again.

And THEN there’s those photos on Instagram that end up with NOT EVEN A NUMBER LIKES?  You know those?  Yeah yeah yeah you know what I mean… The pics that don’t even get eleven likes and you can actually see the minimal amount of supporters you have, publicly, like their handle shows up below the pic and they probably only liked the shit cause they were like:

“Yo, he posted this an hour ago and only has THREE LIKES? Okay okay I’ll like his shit, you know, just so he doesn’t look like a fuckin loser to the world anymore. ”

Anyway while I’m in this circle of Instagram Idiocy I stumble upon those famous chicks with fat asses that got famous just cause they have fat asses but do nothing else with their life other than ‘inspire other girls to get fat asses’ and post pictures of them doin squats at the gym with dumb ass quotes like “Never turn your back on those who give you the strength to love back at what you’ve accomplished”.

Yeah- not ONLY did that quote not make a damn bit of sense but it has NOTHING to do with your squats and WHO is takin that picture anyway?  You’re at the gym askin peeps to take pics of your ass?  And NO you dumb whore.  NOT EVERYONE CAN DO SQUATS AND TURN PRETTY LIKE YOU SO STOP WITH THAT BULLSHIT.

But then I jerk off to em anyway.

Then I wonder what it would be like if I could fuck all of em at once in one room at a million miles per hour everyday for the rest of my life every other minute, but then I realize I’m 31 and some of these girls are like 19.  Then I get sad and then I get horny and then I jerk off again and then I get back to advertising for my clients and then I take a break and post another sketch to Instagram and then I’m back at square one.

I’m probably not alone on this one…

This story has no moral.

And it ends here.