The Entire Internet Thinks It's WWE

I sometimes wonder if we accidentally replaced democracy, conversation and common sense with professional wrestling and nobody noticed.

Not actual wrestling, of course. Real wrestling requires athletic ability, training and a frightening willingness to wear sparkly lycra in public.

I'm talking about the performance. 

Everything online now feels like WWE. 

Every issue has heroes and villains. Every disagreement requires a dramatic entrance. Every opinion must be delivered as though you're standing on the ropes pointing at your enemy while pyrotechnics explode behind you.

Nobody simply disagrees anymore.

You can't say, "I think taxes should be lower." No. You must declare war.  You must inform the internet that the opposing side are either evil communists trying to destroy civilisation or greedy capitalists determined to grind the poor into dust.

There is no middle ground because middle ground doesn't get clicks. The algorithms don't reward sensible. They reward spectacle.

The internet has convinced us that every issue is a championship match, and every conversation is a title fight.

Maybe that's why we're all so tired.

We're living in a world where every day is WrestleMania.

And if there's one thing I've learned, it's this:

When every argument is treated like the main event, eventually nobody can remember what they were fighting about in the first place.

They just know they're supposed to keep booing.

Back To Reality...

Well, the children’s author has gone home.

The guitars have been put away. The pizza has long since been digested. The grandson has blown out the candles on his birthday cake, and the weekend of real conversations, laughter and actual human interaction is over.

Which means it's time to return to the real world.

Not the real real world.

The internet world… The world of followers, algorithms and likes.

It's strange, really. We spend a few days laughing with friends, making memories and having conversations that don't require Wi-Fi, and suddenly it dawns on you how bizarre modern life has become. Because somewhere along the way, we decided that moments only counted if strangers approved of them.

Did you even have a great weekend if you didn't photograph your dinner? Did your grandson really turn five if nobody clicked a heart emoji? Did the guitars actually get played if there isn't a video somewhere proving it?

Apparently not.

The algorithms stand waiting patiently for our return, like needy ex-lovers.

"Where have you been?" "Why haven't you posted?" "Your engagement is down." "People aren't interacting with your content." The algorithms always sound slightly disappointed, as though you've failed some invisible exam.

Well, that is what normal people do. I don’t care about any of that. I blog because I’m an opiniated bitch. I like to voice my scathing attacks on the modern-day human. Have an opinion about the “influencers”; I mean who cares what they think? I see the “influencer” tag to describe someone and I just think “moron”.

We wonder why one article gets five thousand views and another gets five hundred. Who the hell knows or really cares?

We refresh statistics that have absolutely no bearing on our happiness and somehow convince ourselves that they do.

One day I'm thinking, "What a beautiful life. Friends, family, music and pizza. Who needs anything else?" The next day I'm checking visitor numbers before I've even downed a cup of coffee.

Perhaps that's why weekends like this are so important. They remind us that followers aren't friends. Algorithms aren't companions. And likes don't laugh at your jokes, eat your pizza or argue over which song should be played next.

The internet is wonderful. I love writing. I love connecting with readers all over the world. 

But in reality, I’d do it no matter what.

Children’s Author Stayed…

What a fantastic couple of days we had.

My friend Isobelle, who writes young adult books, came to stay with her guy. We only get to see each other every now and then, so it’s always special when we can all get together. There is something wonderful about spending time with people you've known for years. You just pick up where you left off.

Isobelle and I took charge of the important things in life and made the pizzas while having drinks. The smell coming out of the oven was enough to make us all hover around the kitchen like starving seagulls. They tasted even better than they smelled, which is saying something because they smelled magnificent.

Meanwhile, the guys started talking about guitars.

As anyone who lives with a man who owns more guitars than common sense will know, "talking about guitars" is merely Stage One.

Stage Two involves bringing the guitars out.

Stage Three involves discussing pickups, strings and amplifiers in a language nobody else understands.

And Stage Four, naturally, involves playing them.

Before long, our dining room had turned into an impromptu music session. We all threw song suggestions around, although finding the right songs proved harder than expected. Some songs you love listening to just don't work when you're sitting around with acoustic guitars. Still, that hardly mattered. The laughter between songs was every bit as enjoyable as the music itself.

After demolishing far too much pizza and somehow finding room for dessert, we sat drinking, talking, laughing and generally solving none of the world's problems.

And that, I think, is the beauty of nights like these.

Just friends, food, music and conversation. Real life, in all its ordinary glory.

The next morning, they flew back to Brisbane while the Squeeze and I headed up the freeway with my son in the back seat, on our way to my daughter's house for her son's fifth birthday.

One minute you're sitting around with guitars and homemade pizzas, and the next you're watching a small person blow out candles and wondering how on earth five years have gone by so quickly.

All in all, it was one of those weekends that remind you what really matters.

Not followers.

Not likes.

Not algorithms.

Just family, friends, laughter, and enough pizza to feed a small country.

And honestly, I wouldn't swap that for the world. 😊

Children's Author Staying – So I'm Not Blogging 😊

One of my best friends, Isobel, is coming to stay tonight. She's a children's author, young adult mostly. We live in different states; us in Victoria and them in Queensland so I don't get to see her that often. I think the last time was a couple of months ago and I stayed at her place on the Great Ocean Road. Fantastic place to write with a view of the ocean...

She's bringing her guy and so, with the Squeeze, the four of us are going to make pizzas and do that strange thing people used to do before social media.

You know?

Converse.

In the real world.

We probably won't have a phone between us. No social media. No doomscrolling. No arguing with strangers on Facebook. Nothing.

Bliss.

We'll probably have a night of music. Playing it, rather than just listening to it. Pity the only instrument I play is the tambourine. 😊 We have a couple of acoustic guitars, a mandolin, a ukulele, a slide guitar, a cigar box guitar, a Fender Telecaster and a Stratocaster, just to name a few.

And I still can't play a bloody thing.

But I love nights like this.

Because as much as I enjoy writing and social media, nothing beats sitting around with good friends, eating too much, talking rubbish and laughing until your sides hurt.

It certainly beats the Squeeze and I sitting in front of the television every night dreaming of a different life.

Although, to be fair, he's probably dreaming of a life where I don't exist.

Mind you, after twenty five years together, I suspect I've crossed his mind as a murder suspect more than once.

Still, he'll have to keep me.

I know where the guitars are hidden.

The Death Of Embarrassment

I don't know exactly when it happened, but I think embarrassment died sometime around 2015…

There was no funeral. No minute's silence. No flowers.

One day people simply stopped being ashamed of anything and carried on as though this was perfectly normal.

Once upon a time embarrassment was useful. It stopped you from doing stupid things in public. It prevented you from dancing on restaurant tables, filming yourself sobbing after a break-up, or announcing intimate bodily functions to complete strangers.

It acted as society's handbrake.

Not anymore.

These days people record themselves crying and upload it to millions of strangers. Couples broadcast their arguments. Families reveal every scandal. Influencers discuss things with the internet that previous generations wouldn't have discussed with their doctors.

And apparently this is now considered authenticity. I'm old enough to remember when people suffered humiliation in private.

If you tripped over in the street, or at the shopping centre as I did… You got up as quickly as possible and scurried away for checking on the bruises.

Now you end up on Facebook with dramatic music and hundreds of views.

They film themselves having emotional breakdowns. They confess things online that should probably remain between themselves, a close friend and perhaps a licensed therapist. Nothing is off limits anymore.

Births.

Deaths.

Divorces.

Medical procedures.

Family feuds.

The strange thing is that nobody seems embarrassed by any of this.

Meanwhile, I still apologise to mannequins if I bump into them. I whisper when discussing personal matters at the chemist. I still lower my voice when talking about money. And if I accidentally wave back at someone who wasn't waving at me, I spend the next six years considering emigration.

Perhaps I'm showing my age. Or perhaps embarrassment existed for a reason.

Maybe not every thought needs to be shared.

Maybe not every moment needs an audience.

Maybe some things are meant to remain private.

And perhaps civilisation began its decline around the same time people started filming themselves crying for content. Because if aliens landed tomorrow and spent ten minutes on social media, I suspect they'd quietly return to their spaceship and decide humanity wasn't quite ready for first contact.

And honestly, I couldn't blame them.