Ah, “muploading.” The classic mups. Muppy-mup on a Saturday night. Yo let’s take some muploads. Mupload that, betch. Don’t worry, obv already muploaded it.
You all know what it is, but if you don’t I’ll break it down for you. Muploading is the act of mobile uploading (hence, the term mupload) in which one take a photo with her phone and then posts it to Facebook for the social media world to see. Since the bitches got Blackberries back when we were thirteen, muploading has been a “thing.” It has transformed Facebook from a library of photos from your Bat Mitzvah montage into a constantly updated source of answering all your who-what-when-where-why questions duty free.
The concept of muploading, while I admit to taking hefty part in it, brings about many, many questions. Why must we let everyone know where we are and what we are doing 24/7? Taking this a step further, why are we, the muploaders, then checking our News Feeds to see everyone else’s muploads like we’re
stalking researching for a sociology project on the modern JAP? Not only do we want everyone to know about us, but we want to know about everyone. This vicious cycle of give and take is eating us alive like a voracious babe with a cup of fat free Pinkberry.
A part of the desire to mupload is the subconscious idea that we need to show everyone proof we were that drunk, or ate that much sushi, or hooked up with that many random guys the last time we visited our BFFs at Michigan… Obviously, all things young ladies like us are just striving to be proud of!!! I’m sure all of you are denying this statement, but we all know it’s true. We want to prove to the world just how cool we are. Philosophers a long time ago deflowered the idea of the selfish and egocentric human. Well, I’m deflowering that of the typical low-confidence, self conscious girl with a fairly trendy wardrobe and an iPhone. This girl lives somewhere inside all of us, whether we like it or not.
Upon the breakdown of a mupload, the most disappointing thing to me in all of this is that Facebook basically isn’t real. It has become a harbor of this wretched mess. Everything we post and upload is carefully planned and posed. We choose only certain photos to post, and only make a status if we know it’ll get at least, like, 10 likes MINIMUM. And why would anyone ever post a picture if it didn’t a) make themselves look hot b) would get a lot of likes/comments or c) both of the previous.
Ladies, tell me. What has the point of Facebook become?
DISCLAIMER: I, by no means, will deny that I am a muploader and an obsessive compulsive Facebooker. We are all in this thing together, like bros from High School Musical.
As I mentioned in my piece about the transition to and necessity of thongs, which you can read here, my mother has always had a keen eye for making me look like a cult-member from New Mexico. She was pretty happy when I came home from my eighth grade trip to Lancaster, PA toting an Amish bonnet. Thus, I have been born and bread into a double life–part of me criticizing college girls for showing off their beer bellies, which no one wants to see, and part of me loving the collarbone-flattering blouse I just bought or the ironic sheerness of an overpriced sweater. I have always wanted to rebel, but I have always kept hidden those motherly values that were instilled upon me. Needless to say, I have been torn quite a few times in the search for what fashion defines me.
In this never ending quest, I have grown to know the key components of sluttiness in clothing–the “effortless” slut look, the trashy slut look, etc. However, I am still trying to figure out one unsaid rule of fashion: less is more. Let me elaborate with a couple of examples:
The monokini is sluttier than the bikini.
The monokini, which made its grand debut four or five years ago, is basically a bikini with a landing strip in the middle, attaching the top and bottom pieces of the bathing suit. This “landing strip” optimizes and highlights the hourglass figure, yet hides belly buttons and the center of your six pack (or lack thereof). The monokini, which potentially began the cut-out craze (basically how every girl will only wear clothes that literally appear as if they have whole chunks missing from them), is looked upon as a bolder statement–a sexier move. I bought one for a recent vacation without my mother’s knowledge. Her reaction upon the first sight of it? Hannah, where the Hell did this come from? What is it??????
Wearing shorts with boots is sluttier than wearing shorts with sandals.
When I attempted to walk out of the house wearing a short dress with over-the-knee boots, my mom told me that I looked like a prostitute, Jesus Christ, and must go change immediately. Mommy dearest, I don’t understand… didn’t you want me to cover up?
How intriguing it is that the less leg we show off, the more men want us. The less belly we flaunt, the more attractive our bodies become. Maybe it’s because they like the images they have of us inside of their heads better than what they really see. Maybe they want more open back, less open boob, because it allows them to be enchanted by the wonders of a push-up bra and not realize that our “D’s” are actually B’s. Maybe it gives men more to tear off. It gives them the power to know that they are the reasons that women are naked, rather than women being naked because they offered their bodies–crop top, cleavage, bandage skirt, and all–to the highest bidder. I always wonder why in rated R movies, women are having sex with their bras on. The bra becomes an accessory–another ornament to don the body and make it look more beautiful.
I am seriously worried that one day, I’ll be naked and some guy will tell me to put my clothes back on. It’s not you, he’ll say, it’s me. And I will shake my head and wonder if Victoria’s Secret is in serious danger of going out of business. I will also wonder if my mom was actually pretty cool all along.
I don’t know how to say this in a non-cliché way, but I have always been a dreamer. Literally, my dreams are vivid, colorful, and enchanting, similar to the sweet and subtle lyrics of a Taylor Swift song. I can recall scary dreams from my childhood and wild fantasies that are just so clear and insane I often render them as reality. In middle school, I dreamt I lived on the side of a coastal highway and a pirate ship was parked in my driveway. When I was so young that I don’t even remember how young I was, I repeatedly dreamt that I could fly if I thought about it hard enough. I wouldn’t soar, but I would come up off the ground a mere foot. Just enough for it to be so fake, it was real.
Today, my dreams taste like small moments that hit me throughout the day. When they disappear from the bodice of reality, I am left with scars and stains of blood the color of air. Then they lodge themselves in my brain and at night I dream like they are pieces of glass inside of me. A sharp image reflects a super rude and annoying comment my boyfriend left on another girl’s Facebook status; a teacher that oddly resembles a grouchy Santa Claus; a car accident I almost got into because I was focusing really hard on unnecessarily “Shazam”-ing a top-100 song.
They say that when we are younger, we are at our most vulnerable, our most moldable, and our most curious (that is, of course, why I learned how to ride a bike in the eighth grade, and particularly why I did not know how to spell the word “eighth” on my own, independently of spell check or auto correct, until last year). But I beg to differ. As I’ve gotten older, I feel like I am letting my life become planned out by what is going on around me. My dreams are a carbon copy of reality, and reality is a carbon copy of something I think my life would be like if I was Kim Kardashian, Carrie Bradshaw, or some other babe. Let me elaborate:
A while ago, I watched the Season 1 episode of “Girls” where Marnie and Charlie break up, and then she attempts to win him back. Throughout the entire episode I took pieces from that script and copied them into my brain like I was citing the fricking bible. It took less than thirty minutes of the episode to get myself to convince… (awkward pause) myself that I was so like definitely totally a Marnie and my boyfriend was ugh like SUCH a Charlie and that is exactly how our relationship goes. Done.
Guess what happens next? Two days later, and suddenly the touch of my boyfriend feels just like “a weird uncle at Thanksgiving” and, what the literal f, he deals with my retainers just like Charlie deals with Marnie’s. At this point I realized that because Marnie and Charlie break up I, henceforth, must break up with my boyfriend too, and suddenly I find myself picking fights with him for no reason, thinking I’m intelligently verbose when in reality I’m quoting a script word-for-word.
Months before my “Girls” situation, we got into a huge fight where nothing that time was my fault at all and I yelled at him in a ten minute rant. At the end of the soliloquy, he surrendered to my greatness: “You know, you’d be a really good public speaker. It actually sounded like you’d rehearsed that or something.”
We just won’t tell him which movie I stole that monologue from, now will we?