Last week I left social media

Except for this Medium article

A few weeks ago I bought some drawing paper and some Magic Markers. Plotting along I remembered there is no such color as “black” and no this is not a socio-political statement.

And there, I said it: December 16th, 2016.

Call me a thought leader

This summer, before I went to San Francisco to visit my brother, I stopped eating meat, dairy, salt and sugar for a month. When I went to the bar with my friends, I was that person drinking Perrier until eventually I just didn’t go to the bar.

A friend who I met in Kyoto convinced me that we all have parasites in our intestines, parasites that tell our brains, for example, we want sugar when we really don’t.

I’m a 35-year-old on high blood pressure medication; it’s genetic, the doctors all tell me that I have no choice and I’ll have to be on this medication with the warning “do not take if trying to conceive” for the rest of my life.

But what if it’s the parasites that are tricking my brain into constant fight or flight mode?

So I drank an herbal blend called “parasite cleanse” and shat my brains out for a week. And then I felt like I had the flu. My systolic pressure was still 105.

At the same time, I felt it was necessary to publish the following on Facebook:

“I’m drinking ‘parasite cleanse’ and shitting my brains out.”

Someone replied, “Please don’t do that.”

Barely an influencer

I’ve been told on numerous occasions, especially at the dawn of it all, that I’m “good at social media.” People even told me, “Your selfies are the only selfies that are not annoying.”

When someone tells you that you’re “good at social media,” do you say, “Thank you” in response?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

“Me too (everywhere all the time).”

Male coworkers have stared at my tits. While downtrodden after my divorce, bosses have recommended me sex toys. In the USA, bosses have insinuated that I hook up with clients, bosses have said, “Hey check out that ass,” thinking that me, a lesbian, would jive with that kind of heckling. And female coworkers have thrown me under the bus because I’ve looked like a devil-may-care harmless target who spends much less time doing her hair and makeup, preparing for battle.

Not to mention all the shit that goes down in the street.

But hey, you didn’t need a hashtag to figure that out.

That day I was on Al Jazeera.

On the fringe

When the thought of working in another corporate office made my stomach churn I moved back to France, in the semi-affordable outskirts of Paris. I’m unemployed, I have very little savings. I wake up everyday and ask myself, “What will you do today?” as if it’s the first and last day of my life.

The thought is only occurring to me now that I may be an artist and that’s all I ever was and that’s all I’ll ever be. I may even be a shitty artist who will never make a dime.

Stability is a hard thing to let go of.

To other people I’m white and American and therefore inexplicably wealthy. I get this. No, you’re right: I’ll never fully get this.

On a list of extracurriculars, I would be embarrassed to add “social media.” Why? It seems so vain. It seems so, “I’m great at producing spur-of-the-moment edible fragments but lack the patience and dedication to create anything of monumental value.”

Sure, in the beginning, an introvert who loved the click-clack of her own typing, I made a few friends here but now I don’t know what it means anymore. World leaders making snide remarks at each other, hacked and overturned presidential elections, divided families with algorithms dictating their separate versions of reality.

My life is an irreplaceable resource. 
My words are crude oil.
My images are gold. 
I don’t need your validation.
Why would I give them to you for free?

Have you ever gone to the desert and heard nothing but silence?

Have you ever gone to the desert and looked up at the stars?

It takes chutzpah and gall to leave it all behind

(the ones who matter most will always be there).

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