There was a point in my life where ambiguity meant everything to me. I had seen my fair share of movies and the “leather jacket elusive dream boy” trope appealed to my teen heart.It’s not that I had a distaste for oversharing, after all I do have a twitter, and I had been involved in every online platform before it at least once. But I had always assumed that it was my destiny in life as the alleged “fairer sex” to peel back the mysterious layers over some lucky boy who would come out better from the experience of some incessant prying.
Well here’s the issue with those layers: they are not mine to peel, usually, and they wouldoften make me cry. And not in a romantic discovery kind of way, but in a “why did I waste my time to find this out when I could have just had a soda and called it quits from the start” kind of way.
A hard truth to accept is that if someone isn’t opening up to you they most likely DO NOT want to. So any information you get out of them is probably forced and, likely, you didn’t even really need to know whatever it is that you were trying to find out. Further, what’s evenmore connected to my own experience is that usually you’ll be trying to dive into what ends up being a very shallow pool of information. I mean, ideally I’d like to think that every attractive boy with the personality of a traffic cone is actually filled with dark secrets that heis waiting to share with me, the girl of his dreams. But more times than not I’m dealing with what I started with: a traffic cone.
Of course, privacy is nice. I’m a private person myself, masking over this trait with the clarityin which I present the specific, small parts of my own life and day-to-day experiences I deemfit to to discuss online. And when initially meeting someone, I myself am uncomfortable withgiving or receiving an abundance of explicit personal information. But the issue is balance, or, lack thereof. It gets old when I text you “wyd?” and you respond with a poem you wrote on a cigarette box.
This is not to say these flings aren’t entertaining. I have found great amusement in the way that some men try to push their boring art into day-to-day routines in an effort to give off an air that says “my joy division shirt has a joy division shirt on it.” But ultimately, it is really not in my best interest to invest emotional energy into over-analyzing anyone’s Instagram pictures – especially to the extent that I begin to suffer disappointment in my own self for not understanding some austere boy who usually has too many dashes in his blog URL anyways.