The Blue Light Confessional
Picture the open office at 9:07 a.m. Someone should be finishing a deck, but half the team is kneeling before the glowing altar of their phones, thumbs flicking like priests at a mass text. I am there too, pretending to check the weather while actually counting how many strangers blessed my photo of a coffee cup. We call it a break, but it is the most earnest prayer we say all day: please, algorithm, tell me I still exist.
We built a cathedral that fits in our pockets and then act shocked that everyone is worshipping. The rules are simple: every moment is an audition, every silence a cliff, every swipe an amnesia pill. We have replaced curiosity with refreshing, depth with a three-second loop of someone else’s brunch, and the only real sin is posting without a filter. We behave as if the room is empty, even though the room is the entire planet, and the planet is petty.
The Performative Olympics
Social media is not a town square; it is a talent show judged by people who are boiling ramen while watching fifteen other windows. The contestants are tireless. The fitness guy performs a deadlift in slow motion, swearing the camera just happened to be on. The travel couple dangles off a cliff that four thousand identical couples dangled from last month. The “authentic” mom livestreams her toddler’s meltdown and then captions it with a brand deal. The performance is not the problem; the sincerity is. Everyone is begging for applause while insisting they are above applause. It is the human equivalent of wearing sunglasses indoors.
My favorite category is performative outrage, a decathlon of moral gymnastics. Today’s exercise: post a thread about how eating chicken is barbaric while simultaneously emailing a PR rep to secure a sponsored rotisserie review. The more righteous the tone, the more obvious the hustle. People wrap themselves in virtue like bubble wrap and then bump into you, shocked that you heard the pop. They claim the high ground, but the ground is made of affiliate links and discount codes.
The Narcissism Economy
The blue checkmark is our modern crown jewel. It is a tiny pixel badge that says, “Please treat me like a limited edition human.” People chase it with the fervor of prospectors, mining their own personalities for anything shiny. They will buy followers, stage collaborations with imaginary brands, or DM platform employees like they are negotiating a hostage release. Once the badge arrives, they float six inches above the sidewalk, convinced their reflections should stop and clap.
The joke is that the checkmark is Monopoly cash. It buys nothing you can hold, but it buys the feeling that you might matter. In this economy, perception is the only legal tender. The bio changes from “person” to “brand” overnight, and with it comes the solemn duty to post a Notes app statement every time a celebrity dog sneezes. We think this is satire, but we keep refreshing to see if our satire is trending.
The exchange rate
Attention converts to dopamine at a rate of roughly one like per micro-jolt. Side effects include compulsive checking, phantom vibrations, and existential anemia.
The Panic When the Screen Goes Dark
We laugh at toddlers howling when the tablet dies, yet we panic harder. Phone at 3%? Suddenly we are philosophers considering mortality. The train goes underground and the signal drops, and grown adults stare at their reflection on the black screen like they are meeting God. We are not bored; we are terrified. Without the feed, we might have to think about the unpaid bill, the unmade apology, the fact that our “best life” is just an angle.
The scroll is anesthesia. It numbs the day’s bruises with infinite little hits. Each reel is a bandage over a larger wound, and we keep layering them until the body cannot breathe. We call it connection, but it feels like speed dating with the entire species, and everyone is lying about their height.
Hypocrisy Is the House Style
The platform rewards extremes, so we oblige. We drag the “main character” of the day for being shallow, then post a thirst trap with a paragraph about self-care. We call influencers fake while Googling how to be one. We condemn doomscrolling and then scroll to see if our condemnation performed well. The hypocrisy is not a bug; it is the user manual. We are needy, narcissistic, spineless clowns taking turns at the mic and acting offended when someone laughs.
I am not above any of this. I have deleted a post that underperformed like a coward hiding a failed souffle. I have pretended to “take a break” from social media while secretly lurking from a burner account. I have mistaken applause for affection. The critique is a mirror, and the mirror is smudged with my fingerprints.
The House Always Wins
The platforms know the math. Keep the feed slightly worse than satisfying and people will chase the next hit. Serve moral outrage next to thirst traps so users oscillate between fury and desire, two emotions that never log off. Hide the timeline behind endless scrolls; the slot machine handle is your thumb. Show you ads that suggest you could be better if only you bought the thing, joined the cause, or downloaded the app promising less screen time via an app that requires screen time.
We supply the content for free. We even defend the casino when regulators ask questions. We call it “community” while the house counts our minutes like chips. The most disturbing part is how reasonable it feels. Of course I should film this sunset instead of watching it. Of course I should ask strangers if my haircut is valid. Of course the best place to process grief is a carousel post with matching fonts. It is absurd and somehow it is Tuesday.
The Quiet Sting
The punchline is simple: the audience we pretend is not watching is very much watching, and we are performing anyway. The neighbor you despise hearted your rant. The coworker you admire watched your 2 a.m. story and said nothing. The ex you blocked has a new account and knows exactly how often you post. There is no such thing as a private stage, only dimmer lights.
Maybe the only honest move is to admit we are addicted to being witnessed. We want someone, anyone, to confirm we are not alone in this crowded feed. We could log off, but then who would notice? We could stay on, but then who are we performing for? The curtain never falls. The show goes on because we keep clapping for ourselves.
So here is the mirror, held low and steady: we are the performers, the audience, the critics, and the janitors mopping up spilled attention. The circus is us. If that stings, good. Maybe that itch is the first real feeling we have had all day.