The Irate Gatsby

In addition to the much-maligned yet brilliantly evocative The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald has penned other remarkable tributes to the Roaring Twenties, an era that sends an appreciative chill down the spine of every aesthetically oriented, fashion-conscious student of history. What our generation largely appears to have taken from Fitzgerald’s body of work is not the harsh dichotomy between excess and economic disaster, however, nor is it the melancholy of a generation that would live through two World Wars—it is the fact that, even almost a hundred years ago, twentysomethings loved to party. With the recent release of yet another Gatsby film, the Jazz Age has returned to the collective subconscious to remind us that, much like the millenials of today, Jay Gatsby raged all night, every night. (He dressed much better and had nicer worldly possessions than we do, though, probably because he was not burdened by six-figure student loan debt.)

            Perhaps this is a reflection of my rapid psychological aging, but the concept of “partying” has begun to lose its meaning for me. As a young teenager, the idea of a party seemed more or less synonymous with “fun” and at least conceptually related to “relaxation”, “celebration”, and possibly “stress relief” or “letting loose”. Yet I’ve begun to observe that, behind the veneer of obviousness, partying is just something for twentysomethings to do, because they can. For those who are firmly entrenched in the 9-to-5, weekends are expected to be jam-packed with “partying” and “fun”. Never mind that every person is an individual with an individual opinion on what is fun and what isn’t. We seem to think that “fun” can be defined by a specific recipe or conglomeration of circumstances, i.e. alcohol plus electronic dance music plus more alcohol plus Instagram equals fun. Is one antisocial or pessimistic if this formula fails to provide enjoyment?

            It may come as a shock, but in the glamorous life of a full-time medical student with no income, luxury getaways are few and far between, unless said student is fortunate enough to have a significant other who is kind-hearted, generous, and filled with compassion for the sorry state of said student’s general circumstances. My own significant other took me to South Beach in Miami last week for four days of beach lounging, sampling delicious Cuban food, and timidly wading into the terrifyingly beautiful tides of the Atlantic Ocean. (Now see, all that sounds fun to me!) True to form, I planned a detailed itinerary for our trip. In the spirit of vacation, I decided that we ought to visit some of the famed Miami night-clubs, where the women are evidently so stunning that men’s wallets simply abandon their pockets and empty their contents into the women’s Chanel baguettes. While this doesn’t sound like the most “fun” thing in the universe to me, I figured that my man-friend and I are young, hip, and good-looking, and don’t young, hip, good-looking people generally go to clubs to have “fun”? (My inner voice responded that, although I have indeed had my fair share of rollicking good times at clubs, I am now older, poorer, and perpetually more exhausted than I once was.)

            After a sumptuous dinner at an unspeakably chic restaurant, where all the waiters had pleasingly European accents and every item on the menu was virtually unpronounceable, all I wanted was to release myself from the restrictive prison of the push-up bra built in to my dress and don my most comfortable yoga pants in order to bask uninhibited in the aftermath of the gustatory extravaganza. But I sternly reminded myself that we were on vacation, and we would have “fun”, even if it meant several hours of sleepily standing in five-inch heels while nursing a $25 cocktail and being audibly reminded of the ongoing peristalsis of a delectable four-course meal.

            In a run-of-the-mill drinking establishment in most major cities, one must simply present oneself to a disgruntled-looking doorman with a government-issued ID proving that one is of legal drinking age, and be reasonably dressed (that is to say, not in the nude or wearing Crocs) in order to gain admission and spend one’s hard-earned money on pathetically watered-down alcoholic beverages. In cities where the night-life is not so tantalizing (such as the District of Columbia), one might be expected to also surrender $10-$15 to this doorman before even setting foot in the drinking establishment, which always puts one in an evil mood and leads to much muttered cursing under one’s breath. In Miami, however, the criteria for entering a club is more stringent. An ordinary person with average or below-average aesthetic appeal and/or a sense of frugality has not a prayer of entering a drinking establishment in Miami. Not one to be underprepared for any situation, I had done my research and was well aware of the gauntlet that would-be revelers must face if they wish to party in Miami and pretend they’re in a Pitbull music video. Holding my man-friend by the hand, I teetered warily in my stilettos towards a bald man in a dark suit with a Bluetooth affixed importantly to one ear. He stood behind an extensive network of velvet ropes. On the other side of the ropes was a mass of well-dressed twentysomethings (mostly female), shouting over the throbbing music, evidently trying to get the bald man’s attention. They reminded me of the prostitutes from Les Mis.

            I observed the scene in silence for a few minutes. While the dialogue was inaudible, thanks to the pounding dance music, I noticed that every so often, the important-looking bald man would seem to carefully consider a proposal before removing a velvet rope and allowing a group (generally one comprised of slender women in tight dresses) to pass. This brief observation period also gave me an opportunity to take in my surroundings. Indubitably, it was a lovely venue. We were outdoors, behind a posh hotel, near a vast swimming pool softly lit in shades of blue and purple. Elegant cabanas and plush sofas surrounded the pool. I caught a glimpse of tall, broad mirrors in gilded frames, leaning against tremendous vases filled with tropical plants. Pockets of stunning women with endlessly long and tanned legs seemed to have been perched strategically along the pool, and it occurred to me that they were as much a part of the functional décor as the cabanas.

            The clamoring hordes thinned momentarily and there was no one standing between us and the bald doorman, who would inexplicably be charged with the task of either granting or denying us permission to patronize the establishment. Smoothly, my man-friend (whom I had not bothered to notify of my research on the bizarre social rituals of Miami, since I knew that the years he spent in New York City had already rendered him keenly aware of such practices) asked the doorman what “the deal” was. I heard the doorman reply, in an unctuous voice over the continuous pounding of music and shouted conversation, that guests could either buy a table for the night (which would cost a cool $3,000), or open up a bar tab with a minimum of $150 per person. Or we could walk right in with no monetary restrictions if we were “on the list”. I rolled my eyes and stood by, aloof, not bothering to conceal my disdain. Not to be rebuffed, my man-friend asked conversationally, “for future reference”: what do people do to get on the list? The bald man seemed charmed. I heard him give a detailed response about club promoters or knowing somebody who knew somebody, and I lost interest. I was not at all averse to the notion of abandoning the project altogether and going back to the hotel, where we could watch The Golden Girls on TV (and where I could finally, deliciously rip the excruciating hair extensions out of my scalp). The bald man gave my man-friend a calculating look and asked, “Where are you guys from?” The response (“New York City”) must have triggered something in his cold soul, because he then said, “Tell you what. Be my guest,” and cast aside the velvet ropes, thus opening the golden gates to Paradise to the genuflecting peasants. 

            Truthfully, sarcasm aside, I was indifferent to this outcome. While I wanted to maximize our experience in Miami and take it all in, I could tell that this particular venue was simply not my style. First and foremost, the music was unbearable. Electronic music must be an acquired taste, one that I have yet to cultivate, but remixes of popular Top 40 hits have always filled me with sheer horror. If I’m in a sufficiently sporting mood and happen to get caught up in the moment, I will dance and sing along with reckless abandon to some dreadful remix at a party or a club, but numerous stars have to align for that to occur. Generally speaking, that genre of music makes me want to cover my ears and sob. Jay Gatsby, for all his flaws, at least had a full orchestra playing live music at his parties.

            Despite the assault in my ears, I had to admit that, visually speaking, it was all opulence and splendor. Yet the “fun” was conspicuous only by its absence. The rail-thin, beautiful women standing in their clusters along the edge of the pool or perched gracefully on sofas all seemed to be staring blankly at their phones. Some were talking to each other, and some were taking photos (bright flashes illuminating frozen smiles and tan arms perched carefully on slender hips). There wasn’t much laughter and the laughter that did occasionally tinkle high above the pounding beats sounded forced and manufactured. My consort ordered a glass of wine for himself and a gin-and-tonic for me. A group of blonde women with vaguely European accents hovered by the bar, talking loudly and drinking champagne. They checked their phones after each sip.

            With all the luxurious fixings, I hadn’t expected it to feel so common. But it was. It was dreadfully, depressingly common, like a college bar where nineteen-year-olds clamor to get in with their fake ID’s and fraternity pledges vomit all over the sticky tiled floor--only more expensive and less fun. There was no gentility, no elegance, and certainly none of the irreverence and silliness that had made my previous clubbing experiences enjoyable.

            We made our way to a semi-indoor area, where, at first glance, the chances of dancing appeared to be somewhat higher. At least dancing would allow me to enjoy myself and expend some calories, and my man-friend is a marvelous dancer. I may no longer enjoy “partying” in the traditional, formulaic sense of the word, but I strongly suspect that I will always adore dancing, even to the grating sounds of loathsome pop music remixes. Unfortunately, the only dancing taking place in this area of the club was the choreiform gyrations of a wan blonde in a crop top and cutoff denim shorts. She would alternate between wildly thrusting her bony limbs in the air and suggestively rubbing against several paunchy men who had gathered around her. I detachedly noted that she seemed to be high on Ecstasy. To her credit, she did seem to be one of the few people in this club who was having genuine fun.

            With my hopes for dancing temporarily dashed, I turned my attention to a line of interchangeable young women with perfectly shaped bodies who erupted from a back door, holding large, illuminated bottles of expensive-looking liquor high above their sleek manes and cheering with rehearsed enthusiasm. These were the fabled bottle service girls, paradigms of female commodification, living testaments to the futility of feminism.  They wore identical, skin-tight, turquoise Herve Leger dresses with hems so short that an ill-timed squat would leave nothing to the imagination. They cheered and pumped the huge bottles high in the air, making a concerted effort to appear carefree and effortlessly sexy. Had there been more men in the club, I have no doubt that hundred dollar bills would have been flying in their direction. In a different crowd, the appearance of such women would have surely been invigorating. It was a performance, and I wondered if everyone was falling for it, or if it was just me who could see that one of the bottle service girls had bags under her eyes and another had put a black cotton cardigan over her minuscule dress and was sniffling as if she had a cold. I could see that these were just ordinary(albeit very attractive) girls doing a job—not some fantasy sex kittens who lived in a perpetual party—but could anyone else see that? Or did no one else even want to see it?

            A dance remix of Lana Del Rey’s “Summertime Sadness” came on, and I knew it was time to go. I had had enough. We danced with some restraint where we stood (so as not to interfere with the flailing blonde), finished our drinks, and made our way towards the exit. Endless crowds of beautiful women continued to recline in their cabanas and stare at their phones. I wondered if they couldn’t have just stayed at home and stared at their phones all night instead. The whole place, for all its glitz and clinical revelry, stunk of ennui. Were all these people here simply because they had nothing else to do that night? Did they all want to be able to say that they had been there, that they hadn’t missed out—much like the New Yorkers of Gatsby’s era, who had swarmed his famous parties with no invitation, because it was the thing to do?

            While I understand that debauchery and privilege tend to go hand-in-hand, I fail to see the allure of a prepackaged “party” with the promise of generic “fun” in the form of a prettily illuminated pool, expensive cocktails, overproduced “music”, and scantily clad women.  On an individual level, what is actually going on that can be classified as “fun”? For my part, it was somewhat enjoyable to engage in people-watching—to observe the stunning women posing and displaying their glamorously trendy outfits—but it didn’t take long for me to grow bored with that activity. Attempts at conversation with my man-friend were resounding failures, given how skull-shatteringly loud the music was, so we virtually stood in silence, drinking our $25 beverages, watching hordes of beautiful strangers stare at their phones. To me, it was a loud, expensive, depressing bore.

            I have no doubt that an astute reader may wonder if I was simply jealous, and that was why I didn’t enjoy myself at this glossy night club. And to that, I will readily concur: I am jealous. I envy people who can glean simple enjoyment out of a neatly assembled, formulaic “party” , and I say that with no judgment or aspersions cast on the character or intelligence of such people. It’s just not my thing. I would have probably appreciated Jay Gatsby’s parties, if only for the live music and the fabulous attire, but likely not more than once or twice. Perhaps I simply have a lower threshold for boredom. (After all, I generally don’t enjoy a movie unless there’s at least one massive battle sequence and/or car chase.) Or perhaps I lack the ability to turn off the overly analytical region of my brain. I ask myself, why is a certain activity considered fun? Am I truly having fun, or is this an illusion of fun as defined by purveyors of a product?

            Later that night, after removing my high heels, tasteful mini-dress, ankle bracelets, and hair extensions (as well as a hank of my own hair that was painfully extracted in the process), I downloaded The Great Gatsby on my Kindle and settled into the cool, sterile-looking white hotel bed.  And I reminded myself that it’s perfectly acceptable to be a lot of different things at once. It’s okay to be outgoing, friendly, and sociable while also enjoying the solitude of an evening on the couch with an excellent book and a plate of Nutella-slathered toast. It’s okay to dress like a glamorous diva with a penchant for haute couture while nursing a supremely geeky obsession for The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. It’s okay to want to be a part of something while also seeing its weaknesses, as Nick Carraway saw the internal ugliness of Gatsby’s seemingly charmed life—and it’s also okay to be repulsed by insincerity and emptiness. In the end, I was so unimpressed by the depressingly empty social scene that we experienced that night that I wasn’t at all disappointed when we didn’t get around to hitting any more clubs for the remainder of our vacation. Instead, we lounged on the beach. We talked, we laughed, we swam, we ate amazing food. We had fun. Authentic, individualized fun, with no illusions.

            

Why Carrie Bradshaw Is The Worst

            I realize that I won’t win any points for timeliness with this one, but I feel compelled to unleash some pent-up feelings regarding a certain curly-haired protagonist from a certain late-90’s/early-2000’s hit TV series. You see, the deplorability of Carrie Bradshaw has caused me to have some conflicting thoughts on HBO’s sometimes excellent, sometimes dreadful, always giggle-worthy Sex and the City. While the show has been off the air for—wait for it—almost ten years, it still is and likely always will be a part of the collective subconscious of American women, including yours truly, partially due to the allegedly relatable main character. Unfortunately, said main character makes my skin crawl, and hence, the aforementioned conflicting thoughts about the show.

            We all have that one friend. The friend who grates on our nerves and frequently causes us to clench our teeth in unmitigated exasperation, but we keep around anyway for whatever perverse reason. For me, Carrie Bradshaw is that friend. Oh, sure, she doesn’t actually know me. She’s not even real, I get that. But, to the show writers’ credit, she has been written so organically that I feel perfectly justified in having genuine emotional reactions to her and her repugnant behavior. Such is the elaborate monstrosity of good fiction. 

             A little background, for the uninitiated. Sex and the City is an appealing, clever romp through the glamorous parts of Manhattan with four middle-aged single women who enjoy lunch, casual sex, and complaining about men. Is it sexist? Of course it is. But it doesn’t think it’s sexist, which almost-but-not-quite makes it somewhat okay. After all, the intention of the show is clearly to celebrate female sexuality and independence, at which it often fails miserably—but I give the show-runners credit for trying. They even try to avoid stereotypical female archetypes, which is…again, a failed effort. Miranda is a cheeky, caustic, miserable pessimist of a corporate lawyer. Samantha is a promiscuous, witty, femme fatale pseudo-male who literally lives to bone. Charlotte is an ultra-conservative, irritatingly idealistic, Disney princess wannabe. And Carrie is just the worst.

            To explain my basically irrational disgust with Carrie, I will take a page out of Miranda’s book and make an abridged list of reasons elucidating why this shrill-voiced moron is the absolute worst of the worst.

5. All she really cares about is herself.

            Fine, so Carrie is the main character and narrator of the series. She is entitled to have some degree of self-absorption, given that much of the show’s action takes place in her general vicinity. However, she takes egocentricity to a whole new level. In Season 4, after Miranda sprains her neck and hilariously has to wear an Aspen collar, Carrie comes over for a monologue about her boyfriend, disguised as breakfast and checking on her immobilized friend. Miranda, who is awesome, calls her out on her selfish nonsense, and I only wish that Miranda had also had the sense to chase Carrie out of her apartment, pelting her with bagels as she fled down Eighth Avenue in her absurdly high heels…but I digress. Earlier in Season 4, Carrie is asked to walk in a fashion show, and, although it is made explicitly clear that Carrie is participating in this event to serve as a juxtaposition to the real models, she still acts like a total bitchy diva and orders Stanford (her pocket gay) to bring her a glass of champagne while she smokes like a chimney and whines about basically everything. In the final season, Carrie dates Mikhail Barishnykov, and morphs into a teenage girl—you know, the kind who has no need for her friends anymore because she just “wuvs” spending all of her time with her boo. Also, does anyone else remember when Carrie called Miranda to whine about the eternal Aidan/Mr. Big dilemma while Miranda’s mother was dying in the hospital?

4. She has a flagrant disdain for physical and mental health.

            Aside from the fact that Carrie clearly believes that it is both chic and acceptable to have a smoking problem, she doesn’t even think about quitting until a cute, lovely man named Aidan inadvertently makes her feel all guilty about. Because why would someone so self-unaware as Carrie decide to give up a disgusting, fatal habit unless it was for the sake of impressing a guy? Similarly, Carrie (unlike her friends) seems to have no desire to seek any form of physical fitness. Miranda and Samantha both work out regularly. Even Charlotte, who makes me itch, is an avid runner. Carrie, on the other hand, makes a flippant remark about how a man dropping dead at the gym is a good reason why she doesn’t work out. Good for you, Carrie. You are naturally thin and somehow have the lean musculature of a prepubescent gymnast, even though you seem to subsist on alcohol and takeout. Here, have a medal. As if all that wasn’t bad enough, Carrie also turns her nose up at seeing a therapist when her friends finally join forces to point out how her absurd self-centeredness is pathological and worthy of professional attention. She claims to “not believe in” therapy. Carrie, therapy isn’t like the Tooth Fairy. No one cares if you believe in it or not. And by the way, you’re a narcissistic bitch.

3. She is a drama queen.

            I generally try to ignore the existence of the Sex and the City movies, but I simply must cite the infamous wedding fiasco from the first (and marginally better) film adaptation. Carrie, after planning a ridiculously extravagant wedding to Mr. Big (a mistake on many levels), is publicly jilted, to nobody’s surprise but her own, and the stink that she raises is Biblical. Which isn’t to say that it’s not perfectly acceptable to raise a giant stink when stood up at the altar, but Carrie goes so far as to become mute for several days, ignore her friends to the point that they’re actually afraid of her, throw her cell phone in the ocean, and dye her hair brown. Also, as an aside, the only thing that makes her laugh weeks after being jilted is the sight of Charlotte shitting her pants, which shows you how odious Carrie really is.

            Years before the wedding and pants-shitting incidents, in Season 2 of the TV series, Carrie is flummoxed by then-boyfriend Mr. Big’s decision to move to Paris for seven months without consulting her first. Never mind the fact that Mr. Big has made it abundantly clear that he is averse to commitment and delights in stringing her along. She pitches an enormous fit in his apartment and flings a Big Mac at his head. Then she drunk dials him in the wee hours of the morning, ranting and spilling booze all over herself. Soon after that, she starts dating the lovely and adorable Aidan, who—oh, the horror!—engenders no drama whatsoever.  He is respectful, dedicated, loyal, romantic, and pleasant. Carrie is profoundly disturbed and demands to know what’s wrong with him. Without drama, Carrie is as out of place as Big Bird in a brothel.

2. She has no discernible talents (or, in the absence of talents, interests).

            Yes, Carrie is a “writer” by trade. She writes a wildly popular weekly column about sex and dating. She eventually does some freelance work for Vogue and, around that same time, publishes a compilation of her columns. I suppose one could argue that writing is her talent, but come on now. I can’t buy that writing is some all-consuming passion of hers, just because we know that she’s able to make a living out of it. We never even see her write a single thing aside from her inane column—no blogs or poetry or novels or anything. Just trite observations from her daily life of shallowness. And what does her life even consist of, either than sex, dating, and fashion? We hardly ever see her reading. Her definition of “hard news” is the Sunday Times wedding announcement section. We know her knowledge of local politics is pitiful, based on the events of the Season 3 episode “Politically Erect”, in which she dates a politician with a penchant for urolagnia. She has a documented aversion to cooking (she admits to using her oven for storage), and she hates dogs.

            We do know that she used to like Styx and occasionally does the crossword puzzle, but that’s all pretty dismal, as far as interests go.

1. She is a remorseless liar.

            As if sabotaging a relationship with a lovely man because he’s too sweet to satisfy her maudlin lust for drama wasn’t bad enough, Carrie takes it a step further and humiliates Aidan by having a full-blown affair with Mr. Big, who’s married to Tom Brady’s much hotter ex-wife. Let me paint you a picture. Aidan, in all his infinite loveliness, volunteers to do some home repairs for Carrie, free of charge. Instead of being grateful, Carrie whines about how noisy the project is and how it’s disrupting her “work” (excuse me while I laugh myself silly). In a huff, she goes off to a nearby hotel…where she runs into a very angsty Mr. Big, who is out of sorts and desirous of therapeutic boning in order to take his mind off his failing marriage. One thing leads to another, and soon we have your standard Carrie Bradshaw melodrama: Carrie thinks that she and Mr. Big are in twue wuv, Mr. Big is a giant ass hat, Carrie post-coitally pokes around Mr. Big’s marital home in just a bra and gets caught by his wife, Mr. Big’s wife falls down some stairs and cracks a tooth, Carrie screams and cries and finally…Carrie gets away with everything.

            Until much later, when she tells Aidan the truth (to alleviate her own guilt, not because of any sense of personal integrity), gets dumped, has a giant pity party, and never actually reflects on what a lying jerk she really is. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is this: a few years later, Carrie and Aidan get back together. Carrie should be thanking her lucky stars and sacrificing a virgin on the altar of good fortune. Instead, she whines and cries and repeats “You have to forgive me” over and over and over until Aidan, being the lovely man that he is, feels sorry for her and lets it all go. Just like that. You would think that, with all her good fortune, Carrie would have the sense to cease all communication with Mr. Big out of respect for Aidan. Nope! Mr. Big constantly calls Carrie at home when Aidan is literally sitting right there next to her, Carrie continues to have dinner with Mr. Big on the sly, and—get this—she even has the gall to invite Mr. Big to Aidan’s country home and demand that Aidan and Mr. Big make friends. Sure, Carrie. Aidan should totally get chummy with the guy who smashed his girlfriend.

            Carrie has zero remorse about her awful treatment of Aidan. I can deal with flawed characters. I like flawed characters. But, if we’re supposed to root for Carrie and Mr. Big’s ultimate “twue wuv”, shouldn’t Carrie try and win us over with a little remorse and compassion? It’s fine that she made a mistake, but rubbing Aidan’s face in it by continuing to hang with Mr. Big like there’s no Big Elephant in the room is just not right.

            The problem with Carrie isn’t really that she’s shrill, self-centered, shallow, and sneaky. The problem is, she’s yet another in a long list of unflattering female characters in TV, movies, and literature—and yet, she was perfectly positioned not to be. The premise of this show is the struggle of modern femininity, how Western society continues to evolve to evolve in order to allow women to approach equal footing with men in terms of sexual freedom, career opportunities, and flexibility of gender roles. While the show often fails to hit the correct notes, its most egregious failure is Carrie. She’s not just a representative of modern women, she’s a representative of modern, icky people. Rather than applauding her successes and empathizing with her failures, I find myself rolling my eyes at her idiocy and sense of entitlement. I can’t appreciate her as a strong, self-assured woman: I dismiss her as a hypocritical, lazy brat. While it’s refreshing that many of her flaws are gender neutral, it’s still a crime against feminism, because the show-runners had the perfect opportunity to make Carrie Bradshaw marvelous—which would have been huge at a time when prominent female role models in the media were rather scarce.

            Nowadays, our pantheon of exciting female characters in television is much more robust, although we are still afflicted with self-impressed Carrie-types (Jess from New Girl comes to mind). However, Sex and the City was always supposed to be a celebration of modern women, and they ruined the party with Carrie. Daenerys from HBO’s Game of Thrones would have been a much better protagonist. Once she realized that Mr. Big was a sleazy commitment-phobe, she would have flown off on her dragon and conquered a continent instead of wasting her time pining over him. (The problem is, she’s at least twenty years younger than all the other women on the show, which could have made for some awkward non-sequiturs at brunch, [i.e. DANY: OMG GUYS I JUST GOT MY PERIOD! WHAT’S HAPPENING???? SAMANTHA, MIRANDA, AND CHARLOTTE: … ]).

            Whatever. Literally anyone is better than Carrie Bradshaw.

In Defense of Grammar

As if I needed yet another reason to believe that the Internet is mostly a dangerous, destructive, terrible thing, recent perusing of the self-indulgent and slightly maudlin Thought Catalog has alerted me to the awful truth: literally Anyone and Everyone is now a bona fide writer, thanks to the Internet.

You no longer need to possess any particular command of the language in order to see your name in a byline. Interesting and novel ideas are not a prerequisite for unleashing your words on the populace. Generic, pointless rubbish is not only accepted by the likes of Thought Catalog, it appears to be the preference. And, possibly most offensive and repugnant of all, good grammar is not required.

What does the Internet have against commas? Why on Earth does no one seem to regard the distinction between “your” and “you’re” as being worthy of consideration? Can I truly be the only person in existence who grinds her teeth in ill-concealed fury when writers fail to use “who” and “whom” correctly? Has simple, honest proofreading gone the way of the VHS and become extinct?

Even worse than the affronts to grammar and syntax is the vitriol that we unfortunate proponents of the English language encounter when pointing out said affronts—from being labeled as “Grammar Nazis” to being outright ridiculed for daring to draw attention to what some consider to be “trivial”. With regard to the former, calling anyone a “Nazi” (in the year 2014, no less) for being mindful of grammatical errors is distasteful, lazy, and indicative of a philistine understanding of history. With regard to the latter, it’s easy enough to fall back on the notion that the content supersedes form in terms of the relative impact of a written piece, but this attitude is woefully ignorant of the fundamentals of literature itself. One cannot hope to communicate one’s ideas, however brilliant and revolutionary they may be, if the basic structure in which they are presented is weakened by faulty machinery. And grammar is, indeed, the machinery that powers all writing. Why, then, do Internet users vociferously dismiss its importance, even to the point of chastising those who draw attention to flaws in the machinery?

I’d love to know why we seem to accept grammatical errors so easily. Is this a product of the millennial generation, the inherent belief that their words are the super special words of super special snowflakes who simply must express themselves immediately lest all their Facebook friends and Twitter followers are left to wonder in agony what infinite wisdom awaits? Is the urge to say something—anything­—so powerful that we simply accept that whatever is said is going to be at least a little bit sloppy and flawed, as millennials have all but cornered the market on being sloppy and flawed? Is our generation so uncomfortable with silence that we will connect, must connect, using the Internet’s version of the written word in order to ensure that we can never fade into anonymity?

Writing is not easy. It’s not supposed to be easy. Sort of like transplant surgery, if writing were easy, then everyone would do it, and they would do it well. In those days of yore when the distinction of having one’s writing published was reserved for those with actual talent, authors were praised for their skillful prose, their exciting notions, their memorable characters, their startling use of symbolism, their sensitive tackling of difficult issues.  They were not praised for their grammar—because correct grammar was a given. Transplant surgeons are never praised for tying a knot correctly, because knot tying is a fundamental skill in surgery that everyone who calls himself a surgeon is expected to be able to do. Good quality writing is indeed about far more than good grammar. But bad grammar negates good writing.

So this is my wish for all of us who aspire to call ourselves writers: take grammar seriously. We cannot expect to command the written word in any meaningful way if we fail to grasp the underlying machinery, those fussy little semi-colons and prepositions and verb tenses that are so easy to dismiss in our eagerness to indulge ourselves and stroke our egos by publishing our own special, precious little words with the click of a blogging button. The Internet can just as easily transform us into mindless, hash-tagging, self-impressed automatons who artlessly express ourselves in 140 nearly incoherent characters as it can educate, inspire, and motivate us to share our thoughts and ideas with the global community. I can only hope that social media, blogs, and the Thought Catalogs of the world don’t succeed in their endeavor to slowly wear down the machinery of good writing and render grammar obsolete. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m a believer in syntax over hash-tags.