You’re trapped inside your phone

Ok so everyone watched The Social Dilemma on Netflix, and then everyone immediately posted on social media. Ya’ll are the dilemma. That’s how messed up our world is. Everyone was so passionate about this documentary that they did the one thing it told us not to do. Put down your damn phone. Social media owns us.

I miss the old days when the only forms of communication were the home phone and Chatroulette. At least the nice people of Chatroulette didn’t steal your information—they just left you with a slight trauma after seeing your first Russian half-chub. Tragic. Now every app has built-in filters that make thirteen-year-olds look like Angelina Jolie in Maleficent. Yeah, Maleficent is a ten, but those cheekbones are not realistic! Thanks, Walt.

I can’t even begin to imagine what Gen Z goes through—terrorized from all angles and platforms at such a young age. I thought it was the end of the world when someone called me “flat” in 7th grade on Formspring. Then, someone wrote that I stuffed my bra but I literally only stuffed my bra because someone called me flat! I’ll admit though it was bad strategy on my end because I went straight to a C-cup when a subtle B might’ve been more discrete. My point is, if that one stupid comment made me feel like I needed to change my body, imagine how much damage could be done on a global scale?

It’s as if social media was created for bullying –a place where you can judge people from the comfort of your own home. Major companies are capitalizing off of your bitterness. You salty tweens are fueling this economy. It’s every age, though. Even you, boomer. But even if you think you’re not being controlled by social media, you’re still being monitored every time you log on. Especially now with everyone working and learning from home. The screens are even more accessible than ever as we scroll aimlessly, ad after ad, like after like.

Every five minutes, a new gender neutral, vegan Gen Z is doing the seductive Macarena and thrusting to a song about sex, drugs and gang violence before they log in for AP English. I thought it was risqué when my friends and I did a provocative dance to a Nelly song in the middle school talent show. Think again, sweetie. It’s going to take more than a premature body roll to get this generation going.

I don’t see social media leaving anytime soon. How else would we post a pic of brunch or be notified when Kanye West tweets that he’s the next Moses?! And what about the exhilarating rush from getting a creepy DM from a man overseas? It’s just not the same when you slide into my iMessage.

The only solution is to all simultaneously throw our phones in the river. Which river, I don’t care, just make sure you get a boomerang of me tossing it from a skinny angle, preferably with the G6 filter and max brightness.  

Moral of the story, social media can be toxic, and we need to chill and get a hobby or something. Maybe people will even like you in real life. Probably not, but at least you tried. If you need to reach me, you can find me on LinkedIn. Just don’t @ me on Formspring. I’m still not ok.  

Stop Glorifying Mental Disorders

By: Ali Benz

 

A wise, bi-polar man once said, “I’m a sick f*ck, I like a quick f*ck.” Due to his trendy, mental disorder, Mr. Kanye West was able to rap this line for a whopping two minutes and produce a chart-topper. Tragic.

The only people that I hate more than people about to go on Birthright are people that have just returned from birthright. No, Rachel, I don’t want to hear about your new found love for falafel or how you got felt up by an Israeli soldier on the back of a camel. But my hatred of pre and post birthright talk has recently been trumped by a new category: Our generation’s obsession with romanticizing mental disorders. I think it’s great that people are finally having this conversation and normalizing these feelings, but it’s being minimized into a hip fad just like double popped Abercrombie polos and cargo pants that zip off into shorts.

 

Leave it to Kanye West to profit off of being depressed AF. Ye recently described his bi-polar as a “superpower”, which I think is admirable that he was able to reclassify a negative stereotype into a positive, but unless he’s about to lace the new Yeezy Boosts with Prozac, he needs to be careful. The rapper has a giant platform and a huge support network unlike most. Those struggling with a mental disorder should be taught how to address it without fame, and those that don’t possess one should know it’s not something you can just catch and release like mono freshman year of college. You are not going to get a record deal and a Kardashian just because you’re manic. Shortly after West and other celebs opened up about their mental state, I got a text from a friend saying “Do you think  I have bi-polar?” To which I replied, “No, you’re just annoying.” But I’m not a doctor.

 

Speaking of doctors, I saw my physician the other day for my yearly every 5 year check-up (whoops). At the end of the sesh, she handed me a paper and said we should do a quick, regulatory depression test. Just for fun, I guess? She turned her back (for maximum privacy) and I looked down at the multiple choice quiz that would determine my mental health. LOL. The answers consisted of five levels of smiley faces that ranged from aggressive frowning to psychopathic grin. It felt kind of like a trick test, so I filled it in the same way I did every scantron senior year, “C’s” across the board, except for a few questions I found judgmental like, “Are you tired?” To which I chose a rare “E” for “Yes I’m f*cking tired.” Next question. Anyway, my point is, these doctors are so quick to diagnose and prescribe. I guess I thought the “C” smiley was giving more of a flirty smirk than a slanty cry for help, and now I’ve got a brand new Rx.

 

The glorification of mental disorders needs to seriously chill. So many struggle with depression and anxiety that can’t just be cured by the “Ye” album, even as soothing as Kid Cudi’s humming may be. This needs to be an open discussion and not a scapegoat or ambition. Also, WebMD is not your friend, it’ll just tell you that you’re dying, just like every time you dramatically search the symptoms of the common f*cking cold. Relax. You need to pay a hot, young psychiatrist $250 an hour to talk about your sh*t for ten minutes. Or you can, like, see someone ugly on your insurance. Either way. Handle it.