Stop. Just stop. I can’t. This is like finding out that Santa isn’t real.
When I first began reading one of my favorite blogs, Betches Love This, the anonymous authors became instant heroes. I didn’t agree with everything they wrote, but it was satirical, entertaining, provocative, and relatable – naturally, I became hooked. I pictured them as supermodel supreme beings. I need you to picture them as supermodel supreme beings. Emily and Serena in The Devil Wears Prada. Samantha Jones. Rachel Zoe. Victoria’s Secret Angels. Even RuPaul. Superior. Elegant. Unattainable.
The anonymity gave them more mystery; more exclusivity – the Skull & Bones of hot girl blogs.
We were fooled. We were catfished.
Meh. I’m well aware I’m being extraordinarily superficial and judgmental here. I’m aware I’m not the ideal human being in any way. I’m aware I’m a worse human being for posting this. But after the real life identities of these “betches” have been revealed and they’ve broken character, it’s all become a big joke on us. This is what Manti T’eo must feel like.
I’m disappointed. I’m offended.
I’m afraid I’ll say too much here. I don’t want to be cruel – I don’t. But it’s natural to be angry when what’s preached is not practiced. Don’t talk the talk if you aren’t walking the walk. The thing about satire is that it’s supposed to be sort of true, right? Like, all I’m saying is maybe don’t put so much of an emphasis on hotter than hot looks and a pro-eating disorder lifestyle to the point where you need a disclaimer in your book, if that’s not the reality of the situation. Capisce?
I’d let a few ironic gems from their best seller “Nice Is Just A Place In France” do the rest of the talking, but I only made it to page 65 before I literally could not read any more of it, and I just don’t have the energy to attempt it again. I’m in the middle of a Kerouac.
Right now, I guess I’m just in this weird, confused state. It’s like that one you sometimes get post-break-up. Like, when your heart is feeling something your head knows is a lie. I keep asking myself how? Why? They understood me. Right? How do I deal with this torn feeling when I still want to like their Instagrams and read their Bachelorette recaps? I thought they knew me. I thought we shared the same superficial, narcissistic bond. Maybe I wasn’t in love with them, I was in love with the idea of them. Am I more betchy than The Betches? Or just less delusional? Maybe I’m just a worse human being underneath it all. Probably all of the above.
Regardless of any hypocrisy or feelings of betrayal, The Betches are funny and I can’t stop reading.
At the end of the day, I suppose this is an excellent wake up call. An excellent reminder. Nobody is who they seem to be. Everything is an illusion. And some serious self-evaluation is in order. I’ll take a bottle of chard to go. Make that 4.
Sorry for betching.