The Death of Snark

I would like to see it.

Knowing you are insecure, and that that is why you are so desperately cutting all the time, does not make me like you any better. Knowing that at one time people were able to get to part of you that wasn’t bristling with nasty puns and sarcasm—that once, maybe when you were little or pubescent together, you were close with your friends in ways that connoted honesty and earnestness—does not make me like you any better.

Because, as a creature so woefully beholden to the fashion of the times, you have closed the hell up, and now your only mode of interaction with people who didn’t know you before you were so insecure is to be a complete ass.

This is disappointing.

I realize there is a fine line between being genial and able to laugh at things, oneself included, and being corrosive in the endless onslaught of one’s barbed remarks. Not enough goddamn people walk this line. And I am tired of it. Persistent assholery toward people you do not know, and groups you know nothing about—hell, even the creation of those groups, so that you have new targets for your derision—does not make you appear slick, or witty, or adroit with your tongue. It just makes you look like a fucking jerk.

Try being honest about something once in a while, people. Try being open. For once in your miserable post-pubescent lives. When you keep acting like people are going to slap you for finding anything meaningful or beautiful in the world, you make it so the only way they want to interact with you is to slap you. To give you what you crave. And the cycle of your insecurity and the defensive jabs at everyone and everything that is not you continues.

So cut it out.



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