So…I’m pretty sure we ALL know a Mr. (or Mrs.) Me Too. You know, the person who co-signs anything or claims to have whatever you have. Got a headache? Theirs is worse. Tell them you’re thinking about buying some Feiyue sneakers from France? They coincidentally have a pair on the next time you see them. Just getting into J. Cole? Them too! (But they knew about him before you did.)
I’ve realized that there’s something I dislike even more than a Mr. Me Too and I have dubbed this social piranha Mr. Not Me.
Mr. Not Me is that dude (or chick, this ain’t gender specific, I’m just too lazy to type “Mr. or Mrs.” every time) who will disagree with popular opinion no matter what. Anything that gets popular, they criticize relentlessly. Any public opinion that is generally held by the majority, they disagree with. They can’t even rationally tell you why they disagree, they just. do.
Mr. Not Me is full of wacky contradictions. He thinks Twitter is “totally retarded” but uses Facebook to bitch about how the people who use it are attention whores with no life. He vehemently comments on the sad state of music these days, yet he’ll eagerly pay a $30 cover charge to be seen at some hipster show featuring nothing but two assholes with harmonicas. Mr. Not Me is silent throughout the entire regular season, yet pops back into the picture come playoffs only so he can bitch and moan about the bandwagon fans.
Nothing bothered Mr. Not Me more than Michael Jackson dying, and people caring about it. Mr. Not Me was nothing short of apalled at the world’s reaction and felt he had the moral obligation to take everyone down an emotional notch. After all, how could we possibly be “sad” about this? Sure, his music was great but it’s not like we knew the guy personally. Where were all these Michael Jackson fans LAST week, hmm? We all made fun of him and thought he was a freak. He touched little boys, after all.
Well here’s the thing, Mr. Not Me. We may not have known him personally, but he was an integral part of our person. And where were we last week? In dance class, like we have been for the past 5-10 years because growing up, all we wanted in life was to be able to make people see a beat like Michael Jackson could. We were right here last week, asshole. We just weren’t dedicating our Facebook and Twitter statuses to him because he was ALIVE! There wasn’t shit to talk about, until his concerts in London happened and we had new footage to watch religiously. So forgive us for not constantly touting our adoration for him every day and, instead, only becoming visible after his unexpected and sudden death.
If you’re reading this and wondering if you’re a Mr. Not Me – or better yet – wondering if I wrote this about you specifically…you probably are, and I probably did. So hop off your status-soapbox, because at this point in time I’d rather hear about what your broke ass managed to scrounge up for dinner than your pseudo-journalistic commentary on the state of the world.
And YES, before any of you simple bitches bring it up…I do fully realize the irony of me not only complaining about this character, but using my blog as an egotistical platform from which to spout it. Hop off.