If you are a long-time prowler of my musings then you will already know that I tend to document the troublesome times of my life on the internet. If you are also a serial online stalker (like me…) then you may also have realised that these woeful posts have vanished from my bright little corner of the internet. Why? Let me explain.
It has come to my attention that generally a lot more people than I realised read this blog. “Cigarette Sounds har har” is thrown at me a lot by the most haphazard persons, and I am still shocked that people give a little bit of a Michael about what I put on my Instagram stories and what comes out of my mind in hazy patches and fluorescent blobs. It’s nice, really nice.
However, due to this current influx of people jumping on the bandwagon, I am beginning to see my content changing, my flare and passion developing and losing the idea that sharing my deepest, darkest feelings on the internet for all and more to see maybe is not my greatest achievement to date. Slowly (a lie, I just mass deleted) I’m taking away my evidence of my episodes, my dips and my troughs away from prying eyes. Why? Because they are mine.
There are two sides to this coin. Me, posting my inner-feelings onto the internet, naked, bare, laid out on the table, ready to be poked and prodded by readers and critics galore offers a sense of vulnerability and genuine realness. Nobody’s life is plastered with Valencia or the sepia tones of Slumber now, are they? (RIP the classic Instagram filters of our past.) Me lying in bed hungover on a Wednesday morning would be so much more appealing personally if Insta’ filters were real.
So, when I do let my emotions billow out of me, I am both proud of myself for admitting my faults and happy that others can perhaps relish in the ideology that they are not alone in this struggle. It also makes me feel a HELL of a lot better for getting some ludicrously daunting thoughts off of my chest.
On the flipside, an hour after this empowerment I have gained from spilling all da beans, I just feel stupid; utterly ridiculous. Why could I have not just kept it to myself? Why did I have to tell everybody on Twitter that I cried because I dropped a Greggs cheese and onion pasty on a tram track, on the way to a twelve-hour shift? Did I really think that people could empathise with that? Is this really how I want to present myself on the internet? Am I going to be headhunted for a brand-new job opportunity, or perhaps partnered with a brand if I am always moaning about how S A D I am?
Do I honestly care?
How you present yourself on the internet is becoming an integral part of your personality. Do you really doubt that one day, your future employer will not find that misogynistic tweet you typed out on your Blackberry seven years ago? What you say and what you do on the internet did not really have an impact on your immediate image when you were eleven but now it undeniably carries a heavier amount of weight. Your past opinions and your present, carefully constructed beliefs, neatly packaged into 140-character tweets speak categorical, resounding volumes.
I stopped sharing so much on the internet when I stopped watching certain Youtube channels, decided I would no longer be influenced by the ‘bare-all’ approach to the internet that some bloggers took and also became more aware of what was going on around me.
If I wanna eat coco-pops with Alpro rubarb yoghurt with chocolate sprinkles on at 5am, do I NEED to tell the world of Cigarette Sounds that that’s what I am doing? No.
Do I NEED to live up to the expectation that from 7 am – 12 am I am sat, handcuffed to my laptop with my eyes tirelessly feeling up Microsoft Word? NO.
Basically, what I am trying to establish is that the girl is still the same. The girl is still Ella Scott, who gets wine drunk and face plants puddles in the middle of Northern Quarter, who’s heart is fully-invested in Music Documentaries (that George Michael one still has my heart, LORDY), is totally not over the avocado hype and will still undoubtedly pour her HEART AND SOUL onto the internet… She’s just going to write down in her journal that she spilt coffee all over her crotch in a University lecture and had to burst out the door, run to the loo’s and strip off her tights before sulking back and bursting into tears. Because you do not need to know that.
Yep, my journal is about to get a W H O L E lot juicier!
Remind me to keep those words under lock and key!