Everything Is Bullshit

Do you ever look around at your life and ask, "Why am I doing any of this?" That's been the question that is most pressing lately. Maybe it's looking at my friend in hospice and realizing JESUS CHRIST I DO NOT WANT TO DIE IN LA.

Maybe I'm just getting older and suddenly my priorities are shifting. I'm craving a meaningful relationship more than anything lately. One where we take care of each other and exchange tender kisses and have each other's back. I want to give someone loyalty and support in the hopes the feeling is reciprocal. But I live in a wasteland of ego and dreams. Chasing them can warp your brain. You start to forget what life is like for normal people who aren't climbing ladders, desperate for approval and likes and validation.

And then I realize that this sickness has spread throughout the globe. It's ravaging our relationships and our hearts. The empty void we all desperately try to fill with sex and drugs and social media. The vapid sociopaths we have elected our leaders. The billionaires we are all slaves to in one way or another. The shallow role models we revere.

Recently at yet another meeting with yet another "big shot" who can supposedly help my career they asked the familiar question: "How many followers do you have?"

I don't know? How many ways do I want to kill myself? 20,700? Oh! Whoops. Make that 20,699. 20,699 ways I want to stab a fork in my eye and also that's how many followers I have.

"What's your brand, Bridget?" Well I don't know I guess I'm a sex writer but I usually like to think of myself as a HUMAN FUCKING BEING. I think my brand is "happy my heart is beating and stoked to be able to create stuff." I fucking hate it all. It all makes me sick. The nauseating levels of self-promotion. The way we seamlessly attach ourselves to the whatever the day's hashtag is to signal our virtue while directly after that we brag about our babies or "hey check out this show I'm on" or post a picture of #champagnebrunch.

Puke.

We are all brands now. We are all commodities. We commercialize whatever piece of humanity we can. Our marriage. Our children. Our addiction. Our trauma. It's all for sale. I'm just as guilty as anyone else of selling it.

More than ever before I want to check out. Go off the grid. Live on a farm and work the land. Listen to thunderstorms roll in and the birds chirp in the morning. Walk with my dog. Get dirty in the garden.

I don't want any of this. The white noise. The ceaseless chatter. The name-calling and fighting. The daily outrage that we've all become addicted to. I don't want fame or notoriety or to go viral. I want peace and quiet. I want to write in my journal and burn it. I want to evaporate into the ether.

I want something real and I'm not sure real even exists anymore in the mediated blob of a "culture" that consumes everything. I don't even know what the point of me writing this other than to say, everything is bullshit. Even this. And if I disappear ... at least you'll know why.