I’ve been plugged in—in one way or another—since 1997. After dedicating 16 years of my life, and the entirety of my career, to this bad boy, it’s safe to I can tolerate pretty much anything when it comes to social media.
I’ve built a thick skin, slowly but surely, out of baby pictures and #YOLOs and #TBTs and auto-DMs and Farmville requests. I’ve weathered innumerable elections, national controversies, religious debates, fights between friends—all online and all without batting a lash.
I know how to ward off spambots and pornbots and elderly relatives who like to write cryptic, indecipherable messages on your wall. An entire history of failed relationships are still skulking around in untagged pictures, accounts with long-forgotten passwords and Livejournal entries splashed with tears.
And I’m cool with that.
I’m OK with knowing, in excruciating detail, the entire sexual history of this one girl I met at this one party seven years ago who drank all the Smirnoff Ice and passed out on the couch. I’ve come to terms with Twitter accounts, 40,000 followers-strong and wanting to connect with me for no apparent reason.