……everytime I get a notification.
Email. Twitter. Facebook. To a lesser degree, Google+. Much lesser, actually.
My life is a continuous symphony of cacaphonious alerts, reminders and ding-a-ling-a-lings.
Cacaphonious is not a real word. But its an accurate descriptor.
I can even rely upon the magical internet bunnies to provide me with updates on all the tremendously hilarious and frantically mundane things my friends are engaging themselves in.
Which brings me to a quandary.
OK, not so much a quandary, as a conundrum.
People have all different kinds of preferences.
Some like some things. Others like other things.
To each their own, as the French might say.
The internet is a veritable “choose-your-own-adventure” of http://www.whgatcanigooglenext.com in which to immerse yourself in.
I just don’t enjoy some things. I’m certain neither do any of you.
The unfortunate side effect of our expanding digital playground is that it has become commonplace to ridicule and retaliate in even the smallest measure.
How dare I exercise my social muscles by responding or commenting, especially if it is in defence of the less popular?
Because suck it up, that’s why. That certainly seems to be the common response.
I try to tread as carefully as possible. I ask myself some questions.
1) Do I actually need to involve myself in this chest-pounding circle jerk of a discussion? Or can I casually glance at it as I pass by on my way to do something more effective with my remaining time on earth? Like cleaning the toilet, or getting philosophical about wax.
2) Does my life stand to benefit in anyway by desperately pleading my two cents?
3) How much do I actually care?
4) And finally, how much excrement can I expect will levitate and gain momentum, moving expeditiously towards the nearest air conditioning unit, as a result of my involvement?
It seems asinine, but it’s almost as if we are better off keeping our traps shut. Because the alternative is wading into the murky depths of Lake Inconsiderate, where sensitivity, and voicing it, is a weakness.
Of course I am all wrong here. I should probably fill out a hurt feelings report and file it under “cry baby”.
Or I could lash back out. Spew out my frustration, say my piece and flash the online hand as I log off.
I could also say nothing. I mean, only if I have nothing nice to say.
I’m not going to try and scroll the wool over your eyes. I’m not actually involved in any kind of debate.
It was the Pavlovian sing-song emitting from my mobile device that reminded me of it.
That, and the distinctive bleat of the elusive yet smarmy internet troll, twitching its nose in smug flash mob sentiment.
That shit really gets my goat.