On a screen I am put together. My hair is clean, my eyes are bright, my smile is wide. I, like the rest of the world, look happy. I, like the rest of the world, am a sham.
I fool no one. But nobody says anything about it, and vice versa, because they are as guilty as I am.
I am blemished, unkempt, and content with my life a large amount of the time in the real world. I didn’t go to New York’s New Years celebration, though a carefully edited Instagram pic says otherwise. My boyfriend does not cook me breakfast and serve it to me in bed like this morning’s Facebook update, because he does not exist. He is a sham.
I am what everybody else in the world is. We are shams. And we’re ok with that as long as we get our double taps. After all, it takes some skill to keep this charade up. And it feels nice to have it acknowledged.