Louis 10 Years Ago is my new Twitter project: you can find it here. It’s a real-time simulation of what I would have tweeted 10 years ago, if I’d been on Twitter instead of LiveJournal.

Twitter didn’t exist 10 years ago.

I know, smart-ass. That’s why it’s just a simulation.

How does it work?

I’ve been combing my LiveJournal for hilariously melancholy or dated excerpts that work well in the 140-character format. They will be queued so that they roughly match when I would have tweeted them 10 years ago. I began my LiveJournal on February 15, 2003 at 2:09 p.m., so Louis 10 Years Ago will begin tweeting on February 15, 2013 at 2:09 p.m.

That’s pretty anal.

Yeah, to a completely unnecessary extent.

What can I expect to see if I follow this account?

My transformation from awkward, depressed closeted gay teen to slightly less awkward, slightly less depressed openly gay twentysomething. To that end: tweets about high school, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and feeling fat. No joke-jokes, but plenty to laugh at, in a cringeworthy way.

Are you hesitant to expose yourself in that way?

Nah. When have I ever been hesitant to expose myself? No, that doesn’t sound right. I guess I don’t mind sharing the more embarrassing aspects of my past because, at best, they show how far I’ve come. At worst, they’re a good reminder that some things never change — I may always be insecure, a little out-of-place, and uncomfortable in my own skin.

I already know you’re neurotic from following your regular account. Why should I follow Louis 10 Years Ago?

Well, you shouldn’t if you’re going to come into it with that attitude. Seriously, it’s entirely up to you to let high school me into your life. I think it’s funny and a little sad, but your mileage may vary. I’m mostly doing this for myself anyway.

You are such a liar.

I know.

Can you give me some sample tweets?

Sure.

“apparently having my cell phone off for 30 minutes is scandalous. if they only knew exaclty how NOT rebellious i am.”
“watched ‘donnie darko,’ which was fantastic but paralyzing and mind-numbing.”
“i can’t think of a moment during the past month where i haven’t been confused. my only fear right now is this: what if things never get easier?”

Christ, you’re annoying.

I was 16, so yes.

What’s with all the lowercase?

I thought that was very edgy. Don’t worry, I discovered capital letters eventually.

How often will Louis 10 Years Ago be tweeting?

Sparingly at first. I wasn’t always a frequent LiveJournal user. And either way, I’m not tweeting every line of my LiveJournal — not even close — so it’ll never be too much. On rare occasions, there might be a burst of tweets, but nothing so extreme you can’t scroll past it if you’re not willing to commit.

How long will this project go on?

Good question! I have about a year’s worth of tweets now, but I can conceivably keep this up for the next few years. That’s way too far ahead for me to worry about now. It all depends on how receptive people are to the project, and if I can continue tweeting from Louis 10 Years Ago without losing my mind. No promises!

There’s one thing I still don’t get.

Ask me privately. Or just follow the account: I think it will be pretty self-explanatory once it gets going.

Would you like a hug?

More than anything.

And in a fantasy world, maybe that would work. You’d take a page from Harry Potter and refer to James Holmes as “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” denying him power. You’d promise to never say “Wade Michael Page” three times in a dark bathroom, lest he crawl out of the mirror Bloody Mary-style and open fire.

These are superstitions. We don’t create psychopaths by putting them on the front page.

To be fair, there is a rational basis for the correlation — mass murderers are, at times, motivated by a desire for media attention. A shooter could carry out a brutal act of violence with the hope of getting his name in print. He may not be alive to see it, but yes, perhaps his dying wish was to go out in a blaze of 24-hour-news-cycle “glory.”

But it’s naive to think theoretical media coverage is what pushes a person over the edge, as though not printing James Holmes’ name or photo would somehow stay the hand of a white supremacist gun nut like Wade Michael Page. It’s a pleasant thought in some ways, because it allows us to feel we have a modicum of control over unpredictable acts of violence. Don’t give these people attention, and poof, they’re gone.

“You’re making this monster famous,” the internet commenters decry. No, that’s not how it works. You gain infamy by shooting a U.S. congresswoman in the head, or by opening fire on a midnight showing at a movie theater. These acts aren’t soon forgotten, and the perpetrators receive the notoriety assigned to all mass murderers. It’s not a reward — it’s a fact of life. Do something horrible and be remembered for doing something horrible.

These are killers, not Kardashians: not talking about them does nothing to undo what they did, nor does it prevent future mentally unbalanced people from doing the same. It’s also important to note the distinction between infamy and celebrity — to print James Holmes’ picture is not to make him a star. He doesn’t become a style icon. He doesn’t get a reality show. Outside of a few disturbed individuals on Facebook, he’s universally reviled, not a cult hero.

The pearl-clutching “You mustn’t say his name” response comes from fear, but it’s also a self-righteous declaration of moral superiority. It’s a way of letting everyone know that you’re above the news coverage and the media frenzy — the same thing you could accomplish, on a more personal level, by turning off the TV. I won’t pin this all on Aaron Sorkin and The Newsroom, but blaming the “broken media” feels more de rigueur than ever.

“What happened to the good old days of news coverage?” This criticism suggests that we haven’t always sensationalized crimes and expressed a fascination with mass murderers. It also strikes me as weirdly repetitive: blaming the media is only the latest iteration of blaming video games, blaming movies, and blaming TV. It comes from the misguided belief that the depiction of violence creates more violence.

Does a flashy CNN graphic give people like Page ideas? Maybe. So, too, a first-person shooter or a movie about a mass murderer. Psychopaths will find inspiration wherever they can, but the media they consume isn’t what turns them into monsters. We want this to be true, because it’s nice to believe that violence isn’t innate so much as something we’ve inflicted on our culture. But no, acts of terror existed long before the representation of terror.

You can criticize the media for “breeding the next generation of psychopaths,” as one Gawker commenter so absurdly suggested. It won’t change the way we report news, or the fact that terrible people do terrible things. But it’s tough to accept the reality of a mass shooting a mere 16 days after the last one.

Assign blame where you see fit and find comfort in false beliefs: the boogeymen aren’t going anywhere.

That’s not the point. What’s astounded me about Gawker’s brief foray into commentlessness (it’s a word — look it up) and the announcement of a new commenting system is the outrage. I suppose “astounded” isn’t the right word: every development on the internet is greeted with some level of horror, vitriol, and disgust. Certainly I understand that change is scary — I am 25, and I live with my parents (temporarily). But there’s something so gross to me about the way it’s articulated. It’s not, “I’m upset because a website I like is making a change I don’t agree with.” It’s, “How dare you” or “You had no right” or “Do you not care about my needs at all?”

I can’t speak for Gawker, but I can speak for myself. I feel the same way about these comments as I do when people proudly announce that I’m no longer funny on Twitter and they have to unfollow — what makes you think I give a shit?

You know how I respond to your indignation? With indignation of my own. We are absurdly privileged to have access to an infinite amount of free content on the internet, much of which is actually quite good. We don’t pay (or we pay minimally) for movies, music, news, criticism, original fiction, porn — and then we complain about it. Because we’ve been conditioned to believe that it’s our right to do so. If I’m following a person on Twitter and he makes a joke I don’t like, surely I should let him know. Even though I’m just one of the people who follows him, and he didn’t write the joke for me, and I’m making the choice to include him in my feed.

Before you start prattling on about censorship, believe me that I’m all for everyone speaking their mind. Of course you have a right to complain about a free service. I’m just saying, I have the right to think that makes you an ungrateful tool. But that’s beside the point. What I’m annoyed by is the entitlement, the sense that you think you’ve earned a say, that you deserve one just by virtue of having internet access and a keyboard. Everyone has the right to speak, but your words may not have any effect. And that’s fine — that’s the way it always has been. Not all comments are created equal. Not all criticism is valid.

I’m not saying shut up. (Or I am, but if that’s the case, I’m telling myself to shut up, too. Not uncommon.) I’m saying take a step back and look at what you’re saying. Are you making a valid point, or are you just whining because a website isn’t catering to your specific demands? Again, I do it, too. I probably won’t stop doing it. It’s just something to be aware of, the next time you or I bitch about a Facebook redesign or a new login system on OKCupid or, yes, Gawker temporarily disabling comments. Complaining is fine, but acting like you are owed more than what you’re getting is obnoxious.

I’m going to take this in a different direction, and I hope you’ll pardon the shift. Just go with me on it, and if you think I’m an idiot, feel free to let me know! (You will.)

It’s the same sense of entitlement that has inspired much of the criticism behind HBO’s Girls, a sharp and hilarious new series that drives most creative twentysomethings a little crazy because, yes, this is what our lives are like, and damn it, Lena Dunham beat us to it. That’s not a criticism of the show: that’s a credit to the voice it has captured. Of course I relate to the English major writing a book of personal essays while trying to find a “real job” and navigate the sexual politics of 21st century dating. To quote the last generation: “duh.”

And while I’m reluctant to dismiss all criticism as jealousy — “You’re just jealous” is a useless response in most every scenario in which it’s used — I do think that many of the anti-Girls voices on the internet are simply people who wish they had written Girls. It doesn’t manifest in simple admissions of that, because this is the age of entitlement. Instead, it goes back to that same indignant question that’s asked when a website opts for a new design: “What gives you the right?”

It is fine to not like Girls. You probably like a lot of shows that I think are terrible. (Smash? Reallly?) But what bothers me is how much of that hatred seems derived from a sense of “unfairness.” The charges of nepotism are ludicrous: everyone in Hollywood has some sort of advantage. You know someone or you’re related to someone or you fucked someone or you’re just naturally more good looking than anyone else. There is no clear path, and more often than not, you don’t end up on TV just because you’re someone’s kid. If Girls were a bad show, then perhaps you could complain about nepotism. But it’s a good show that should be on the air, regardless of anyone’s parents.

Ask yourself this: are you mad at Lena Dunham’s success because you don’t think she deserves it? Or perhaps more to the point, do you think that you deserve it more than she does?

If I can tie this all together — and yes, that’s going to be a challenge — I’d say that the internet has placed all of us on what appears to be an even playing field. We all have a voice and a say and a direct line of communication to “the right people.” It looks that way, but that’s a false perception. Some of us are smarter and funnier and better than others — and I say that as a person who acknowledges that there are plenty of people smarter and funnier and better than I am. We succeed on the basis of our own merits, but also on luck and timing and, yes, who we know.

Regardless, we feel as though we deserve success. That same narcissism and privilege we see reflected in some of the characters on Girls is what drives rejection of the show. Read my blog. Watch my show. Let me be more famous than you.

And none of this is really a comment on Gawker (or its commenters) or Girls or even Gawker’s opinion on Girls. I’m just reflecting on the fact that now more than ever, everyone on the internet feels equally as important as everyone else, and that has caused a tremendous level of perpetual dissatisfaction. The world can’t revolve around all of us at once. And the ultimate irony, before someone else points it out, is that I’ve written a rambling, self-indulgent, 1,200-word post on this that I expect people to read.

Seriously, though, why should you care what I have to say? I’m just another blogger trying to shout above the crowd.

Well, I thought it was harmless enough.

But sometimes even the most innocuous jokes are taken poorly. As my tweet spread, I became inundated with @-replies that ranged from mild frustration (“poor taste”) to rage and even a couple of death threats. (My first!) Oh, sure, plenty of people seemed to like the joke, too—and I imagine those that retweeted it, for the most part, understood its tone. But for every positive comment I got, there were ten more iterations of “twat,” “wanker,” “cunt,” “kike,” and “knob jockey.” That last one is the most adorable euphemism for gay I’ve ever heard, so by all means, slur away!

I was overwhelmed by the response—and also really surprised. What about my tweet was actually offensive? Yeah, if you take it literally, it’s an indictment of the English people, but why would anyone take umbrage at another country’s prompt clean-up efforts? As I explained in subsequent tweets—which I’m certain few of the furious masses read—it’s more of a joke about American inactivity and ignorance (particularly about the UK). Of course I don’t think that being quaint and proper are universal English characteristics, or that community action is worthy of criticism. I’m frankly astounded anyone could take it otherwise.

I think there are valid reasons to criticize me for writing that. The riots are taking a serious toll on the country, and it is, for some, “too soon” to joke about them. Fine. But to the slew of people who responded, “We’re cleaning up because we care about our community,” I have to ask, are you fucking kidding me? Of course I understand. Of course I sympathize and admire your efforts. I’d argue that the very stereotype I was lampooning, the “quaint and proper” Englishman, comes from a positive quality many British people do possess—that is, the ability to “keep calm and carry on.” This is not a bad thing.

And then there were the responses that compared the riots to September 11th and Hurricane Katrina. I’m not going to touch that, insofar as I’m not a fan of ranking tragedies. I will say that it strikes me as ass-backwards to suggest a rather tame joke is on par with making light of the deaths of thousands. Which is not to say that comedians haven’t made jokes about 9/11 and Katrina—because plenty have, and often. But the type of humor I was employing is, in my mind, a different animal entirely.

At this point, I have to address what many of you may be wondering—is this entire post just a humblebrag? I won’t deny that I enjoyed the attention I got yesterday: no tweet I’ve written has ever spread so far and so fast. That having been said, I don’t relish being called names, or threatened with violence. And I get no satisfaction from offending people. Now, I didn’t lose (much) sleep over yesterday’s outrage, because I stand behind my joke, and even elaborated it to diminish its potential for being misunderstood. Still, I don’t want attention for being a wanker. (Maybe for being a knob jockey. Aw, knob jockey.)

I’ll also admit I got twitchy at the number of tweets calling me ugly. But then I reminded myself that my avatar isn’t exactly flattering, and I am too adorable to be this insecure.

As always, this experience has reminded me about the downside of exposure. The more people you reach, the more people you can piss off. Someone is always going to be offended, whether for reasons rational or not. Someone else is always going to try to tear you down, perhaps just for the hell of it. I have written before about my need to develop a thicker skin, and I think yesterday’s onslaught of negativity was good exposure therapy. It’s not that I’m past taking harsh words to heart—I’m just learning to appreciate them for what they are.

I understand my humor. I know my heart is in the right place. And I know the people who matter don’t think I’m a soulless monster who deserves to have his house burned down. So it’s here that I note my explanation and reflection on the events do not mean I regret anything. I’m doing something that doesn’t come naturally to me—not apologizing.

Why steal tweets? I guess the simple answer is you’re not funny enough on your own. I have seen several of my 140-character musings copied word-for-word or tweaked slightly and posted by someone else. I’ll admit my first reaction was a swelling of pride (what’s that expression about imitation?), because being plagiarized made me feel as though I’d arrived. That initial burst of excitement was followed closely by rage: a fraud was getting credit for my work. All of this was rendered more infuriating by some of the responses I got, which could be paraphrased as, “Who cares?”

I mean, I do. But this speaks to a larger issue, the misconception that by putting something online you’re basically giving anyone license to nab it. One of my favorite bloggers, FourFour’s Rich Juzwiak, has encountered this on more than one occasion, with his expertly edited supercuts used (without credit) on major TV shows. I doubt I put as much effort into single tweets as Rich does into his videos, but they’re still my work. It’s true that 140 characters (or fewer!) isn’t much, not when compared to the incalculable number of characters in a full-length novel. (It’s not actually incalculable, but who wants to do that math?) Still, you can do a lot in a tweet, and the best tweeters do: you make a point, or you tell a joke, and if you’re lucky, it makes an impression.

In other words, size isn’t everything, but I’d guess that’s how many Twitter thieves justify their plagiarism. Is it really stealing if you’re only grabbing two sentences? This is also a culture in which people quote their favorite movies incessantly (oh, God, so incessantly), which also might encourage the belief that jokes, once shared, are in the public domain.

I can’t believe I even have to say this, but it’s something a significant portion of the internet still hasn’t taken to heart: It’s wrong to pass off someone else’s work as your own. What is common sense for some means nothing to others, as evidenced by the number of people asking me what the big deal was when I lamented my plagiarized tweets. And yes, to an outside observer, I can see how it might seem a little silly. (“Hey, I made that dick joke first!”) But my tweets, however brief or vulgar, are my writing. I value them as much as I do my blog posts, my articles, and my essays—and I expect others to show the same respect.

Nothing irks me more than the “it’s just Twitter” response, especially when it comes to the defense of a plagiarizer. Twitter is a fast-paced, constantly-updating forum, yes, but that’s all the more reason it’s important that we’re given proper credit for our work. The things we post online may last, but they’re just as likely to disappear quickly. The digital world is transitive, and that makes it easy for a thief to sneak in and steal something old just to regift it as something new. Plagiarism matters even more because tweets are, in the long-run, insubstantial. It’s tough to establish staying power or to determine authorship, which is partly why I defend my tweets with such intensity.

But what “it’s just Twitter” also disregards is how much the site means to so many aspiring writers, myself included. No, we can’t all get a TV series or a book deal out of it, but Twitter has a massive impact on our styles, our senses of humor, and yes, sometimes our careers. I never even knew I wanted to write comedy until I started getting a positive response to my Twitter, which has opened up new avenues to me professionally. It may “just” be Twitter to you, but to many of us, it’s a unique outlet for our voices. And when another person takes credit for my voice? You’re damn right I take that seriously. I think I’d be a fool not to.

Crossposted to Huffington Post Media here.

Obviously I can’t speak for every woman on Twitter, but I can reflect on trends I have noticed. I have seen some accounts where women tweet primarily about sex, often in explicit terms. I’ve seen avatars that are cropped to focus just on cleavage. And I’ve seen people complain that these tweeters are shamelessly pandering to horny straight male followers. On some level, maybe that’s true. But then, I know plenty of women who don’t include their vagina in every (or even any!) tweet, and it’s not like they’re immune to undesired male attention.

I’ll be honest: I don’t follow many accounts with primarily sex-based humor, male or female. (If there were a gay dude tweeting about his sex life who was also funny, that might be a different story.) I don’t think there’s anything wrong with tweeting about your desire to get fucked, even if that’s all you want to tweet about, but I’m not that interested unless I’m also laughing. What’s more fascinating to me is the position this forces less sexually explicit female tweeters into. Suddenly, a single tweet about sex or boobs or vagina can get you pigeonholed. It creates this forced second-guessing—am I going to be lumped in with the rest? And being attractive—or, more accurately, using an attractive picture of yourself as your avatar—can become a liability. Perhaps people are questioning how you earned your followers: “Would she have as many if she weren’t so pretty?”

There’s a lose-lose quality to it, which is really frustrating. I feel like Twitter (or, more accurately, one’s followers) can at times force a female tweeter to make a choice she shouldn’t be required to make—are you going to be one of those women? And either way, the passing mention of sex can be misconstrued, with sexual liberation recast as “slutty for attention.”

Not that men on Twitter have it easy all the time either. I don’t think the problem is quite as pronounced—there are, objectively, still a whole lot of cultural benefits to being born with a penis. But I’ve also paid attention to the way male tweeters talk about sex, and it’s almost always in a tone of self-mockery. How many men on Twitter (and I’m referring more to the actual humorists than the Tucker Maxes) boast about their sex lives? How many jokes do they write about having a penis that’s too big? I get that this reflects a popular trend of self-deprecation in comedy, but I think it also has to do with the way male sexuality is perceived online.

Men on the internet are pervy bonermachines. Scratch that—men in general are pervy bonermachines. But the internet brought on a new age of lechery, and with that, the perception that guys go online to get off. We’ve come a long way since the early days (porn has gotten better, too!) but being a dude and talking about sex too much will still get you labeled a creeper. Sometimes I think that’s fair, especially when I see the kind of @-replies my female friends get. Except I know, rationally, it’s still a broad and largely damaging stereotype. A guy who tweets too often about wanting to get laid is desperate, pathetic, and, well, icky. It’s both expected and frowned-upon. So when women do it, it’s for attention, and when men do it, it’s because they’re walking dicks?

There’s a lot of bullshit on either side, and I guess what it comes down to is that it’s not always easy to talk about sex on Twitter. I mean, it’s simple in the sense that most everyone can and does do it, but there are always repercussions in terms of how your friends and followers identify you. If I have a point in all of this, perhaps it’s that we shouldn’t be so quick to judge, but a) duh, and b) one blog post isn’t going to have any effect on human nature. In the meantime, I’ll do my part to be more aware of the labels I apply to other people, and maybe a little less concerned about the labels applied to me. Free to be… you and me. Free to have frank, open sexual discourse, or to just make yuk-yuks about blowjays, because—why not?

Which is to say nothing of how sexual identity plays out on Twitter. I’ll save that for another (hopefully less convoluted) post. I see you shiver with anticipation.

To those who have said I am overreacting, I have to disagree. As many have pointed out, we all share ideas with one another on Twitter. We borrow from our favorite tweeters, sometimes subconsciously and sometimes as an homage. If someone wants to riff on something I’ve posted, I’m not going to call him or her out. That’s not plagiarism, in my mind. But I have a hard time believing anyone can read a tweet, wait a month, and tweet something that is exactly the same with one or two words changed. Again, I’m not only referring to my tweet, but to several others I compared with the originals.

But enough about that. I’m done talking about this person. If you feel like I’m off my rocker, that’s your prerogative, and if you agree with me, you can proceed as you see fit. I am, on the other hand, really bothered that I’ve been labeled a “bully” because of this. I have an incredibly difficult time standing up for myself—something I’m working to change—and it sucks that my attempt to right a wrong, to reclaim credit for my work, is somehow being construed as bullying.

As much as I appreciate the public consciousness about bullying, I’m resentful of the fact that “bully” has become a meaningless catch-all term. What began as a campaign in response to the rash of young queer people killing themselves has been co-opted by the mainstream. Of course, straight people get bullied, too, and all forms of bullying are wrong. But let’s call a spade a spade, and not get caught up in a buzz word without appreciating the connotation.

I don’t talk about being bullied often, mostly because I find enough other mundane shit to complain about. And I’ve lived a pretty positive life for a chubby gay Jew. So I’ll be brief. Here is what it means to be bullied: Being called a “faggot” all throughout middle school and high school. Being mocked for your inability to catch a ball, or to run a mile in the right amount of time. Having anonymous people on the internet call you a “fat fuck with no friends.” Getting laughed at because you wore the wrong clothes. And your hairstyle is dated. And sometimes you don’t know how to talk without stammering.

Being assertive is not the same thing as being a bully, and frankly, I’m pissed off that anyone would accuse me of that. I make an effort to be nice to as many people as I can. I’m far from perfect, and I can certainly be an asshole, but I would never go out of my way to make someone feel worse about who he or she is. The only criticism I lodged against the aforementioned tweeter was based on plagiarism—behavior that is universally regarded as rather shitty, and that can easily be corrected. (It’s simple: stop stealing!)

I make mistakes. I say the wrong things. And at the end of the day, I am an insecure ball of neuroses who’s honestly just trying to do his best to not fuck it up. If I’ve wronged you, feel free to let me know. But don’t call me a bully. That’s one thing I know I’m not.

You know what would be even worse? A “dislike” button. “Dislike”-ing a status would be just as shallow but with the added offense of mimicking support. I’m horrified by what has happened to Joplin—doesn’t mean I need a button of any kind to express that. I don’t think any of us do. What bothers me about Facebook “like”-ing is that it’s made us lazier than ever. Clicking a button is one of the easiest things you can do, and in nanosecond, you’ve made something resembling a statement.

I’m not advocating for the abolition of the “like” button, because that’s silly. And it definitely has its purpose. If I read a funny status update or see a particularly shitfaced picture, I’m liable to “like” it. On a larger scale, however, I recognize how insipid this is. I’ve seen people on Facebook “like” articles about convicted murders being sentenced to death, break-ups (maybe the relationship was unhealthy?), and job changes. Surely there is more to it than a thumbs up. “Like”-ing is a half-assed way to say, “I saw this. I get it.” How is that ever enough?

It’s not the only lazy thing we do on Facebook. Birthday wall posts are almost as silly, although given how few people remember to actually call on birthdays, I guess they’re better than radio silence. But nothing on Facebook makes me more livid than someone changing his or her status/profile picture for a cause. The term for this is “slacktivism,” and I really wish I’d coined it. (I fucking love portmanteaus.) Again, I’m not reinventing the wheel here, but I think that Facebook slacktivism is more harmful than we give it credit for. It’s not only annoying—it’s damaging to the way we think and act.

I think we all look for easy outs, and “like”-ing a status or changing your profile pic is an all-too-simple way to delude yourself. I know it’s not necessarily a “one or the other deal”—you could change your picture to a cartoon character from your youth to combat child abuse (seriously, what?) and still donate money to the appropriate charities. I just don’t think that’s the norm. There is something so smarmy and self-congratulatory about all of these meaningless acts: “If you really cared about gay marriage, you would change your Facebook status for an hour. I did.” That allows people to take a step back and admire their own “effort.” Give yourself a pat on the back. You ended hatred. I “like” this!

To be fair, the other side of this is texting for disaster relief. Texting is lazy as shit, too—you type some numbers into your phone and bam, money donated. But I can’t really crap on that, because hey, at least you’re doing something. Given that I’m not exactly the most proactive person myself (hold your gasps, assholes), I can appreciate the ability to do something without breaking a sweat. But what you’re doing has to have some value past words, words, words. (He says, as he’s blogging.)

Slacktivism aside, I’m also just bummed at the way “like” has halted so many conversations. And I think it’s ludicrous to suggest that another button would somehow solve that problem. It’s like those news stories with words you can click on the side—is the story “gross” or “sad” or “WTF”? God knows the ability to choose from those hasn’t halted internet commenters, but it’s still so obnoxiously reductive. Why even give people the option of limiting their response to a one-word reaction? As far as I’m concerned, saying nothing at all is preferable to clicking a button.

But while you’re here, feel free to click the “OMG that is SO true” button at the bottom of this page. (Right??)