I live a mundane life. I am average. But what is it to be mundane? What is average? In comparison to what? It seems in my era there is a pressure more than ever to live an exciting and glamorous life. Thanks to social media, every minute of everyone’s life can be documented for all to see as it happens. Our thumbs scroll through pictures of Kylie Jenner’s infinite wardrobe of Balenciaga and Balmain.

We watch her Snapstory minute by minute as she climbs into one of her Rolls Royces and gallivants around the Hills of L.A. Our Twitter feed consists of overused quotes and cliché thoughts posted solely for social interaction and not because of actual emotion. We compare ourselves to celebrities and models and sports figures who already live an inflated and exaggerated life but are forced to publish their daily activity to remain relevant in their industry. We in turn feel that we too must exaggerate our lives on Instagram or Snapchat to remain relevant. Trendy.

Somehow, girls are finding ways to make even their breakfasts glamorous. Who knew putting an acai bowl next to a pair of Ray-Bans in front of a sunny window could be so aesthetic. I hope the bottle of Voss water you purchased was worth the extra $3.00 for you Instagram. Are those hot dogs or legs on Myrtle Beach? Did you actually read that book you put next to your feet covered with sweater socks from American Eagle with the caption “Sunday morning reads:)”? We are obsessed. We are obsessed with living a life we don’t actually live.

Back to me and my average life. I love me. I love my average life and I love the people I surround myself with. I am a lucky little duck living a #blessed life. My parents pay for my college. While no, I do not have the face of Megan Fox or Gigi Hadid, my genetics didn’t leave me looking like a gremlin, so I should be thankful for that I guess. I look pretty normal, if not decent with some contouring and mascara. I drink clean water and eat healthy food with the exception of the occasional pizza binge. And by occasional I mean weekly. Yet despite the multitude of things I have to be grateful for, I still clamor for more. I want a new leather jacket from Free People. I want hair extensions. I want a smaller nose and thinner thighs. I want a cute boy to take cute pics with me and make my friends jealous. He doesn’t even have to be straight. I want more likes on my Instagram posts and more people to care about me. Because when someone likes your Instagram photo, that obviously means they really care about you!! Right??

Sometimes you can find me in the corner of a party glued to my phone. But I’m not texting anyone. Honestly, someone probably hasn’t texted me for a good half hour. Instead, I am deep into Afterlight or VSCO Cam editing one of the pictures I took with a friend at a pregame before I looked too hammered to be pretty. Other times I’m scrolling through the views on my Snapstory. I’m making sure that people who probably don’t even enjoy my company are watching me have a better time than them. Even if I’m just drinking cheap wine and watching the episode of Friends where Rachel and Ross get married in Vegas. I force my friends to take “candid” picture of me laughing at a park or beach or festival or party or sitting on a rock on campus. Or in front of a brick wall. #OOTD. I airbrush the hell out of my skin on Perfect365 because I haven’t started Acutane treatments yet and my chin looks similar to the pepperoni pizza I just shoved down my throat. Only 132 likes on a photo after two hours? That’s pathetic.

I hate what I’ve turned into. I hate being out with my friends and thinking to myself, “I haven’t posted anything in 4 days, is there anyway I can turn this swampy pool day into something cute?” "Does this picture match my Instagram aesthetic?" It’s exhausting. It’s stupid. I’m tired of living my life through a camera phone lens. Aren’t you? My excuse is that because I’m in fashion I have to appear trendy on social media in order to get noticed. And that’s a bullshit excuse. There’s nothing that justifies being more obsessed with your digital reality than your actual reality. Just because you got 403 likes on a selfie you too airbrushed the hell out of doesn’t mean you have more friends and better friends than someone who only gets 80 likes on their edited selfie with the caption “feelin’ myself”. Or maybe it was a Taylor Swift lyric. Whatever. Your presence on social media does not determine your worth as a person.

No employer will ever look at you and say, “Wow this is a bomb ass pic you took of a latte you took three sips of at a coffee shop, ur hired lol.”

A cool blog or Instagram page might snag you an internship, but an actual career is founded on drive, talent, and humility. I’d rather promote someone who isn’t late to work because it took them 15 mins to find the right filter for their sprinkled donut.

Let me make this clear. You actually have to be a good person to warrant merit and respect. The self-esteem you gain from your Instagram or Snapchat or Twitter is temporary. Stop comparing yourself Victoria’s Secret models whose bodies are elastic and snapback to prime fitness after giving birth. Or Kylie Jenner’s surgically enhanced lips. And hips. And ass. It is okay to be normal. It is okay to look normal and do normal things. And live a normal life privately. Whoever tells you “pics or it didn’t happen” can shove a GoPro up their little tushy. I understand that photos capture memories. But I’d rather remember the view itself rather than the view from the phone screen. Wouldn’t you?