It’s all about you. And it’s all about me. Whatever we post— sunset, political article, opinion, kitty cat video, family photo, vacation itinerary, job description, artistic accomplishment, real estate, the ME factor is front and center. Whenever we announce where we are or where we are going and what we’re doing and why we’re doing it and with whom, it’s about ourselves, aint it? When we discuss our emotional deregulation, sleep apnea, allergy to peanuts, it’s about ourselves. For example, the sunset. For me to take a picture of the sunset means that I am there in front of it. It’s about me, being there. Me. You, on the other hand, are NOT in front of that sunset. Even when I am pretending to complain about something. It is MY complaint and not yours. Apparently if I’ve posted it, I feel that in some way the complaint is packaged in a positive context. “Gee, the weather was shit in Iceland” — “It’s a fucking shame that Madonna crashed my party. I hate her pop sell out ass.” If our posts are a confession of course it is about us, and the underlying message of any confession is one of superiority, or, at the very least, suggestive of a rare dignity and courage. Any negative implied in any posting is minuscule and in fact adorable. On the other hand, lack of a negative frame within a post suggests a blatant narcissism, a subversive insecurity, and being the Master of Insecurity I can see your agenda blindfolded and so can most everybody else, so stop with the bullshit if you want to be taken seriously. Stop with the fawning, the bragging, the reverse complaint. Stop with the territorial snobbery, the faux modesty, the overly anxious brou-ha-ha of life. Who gives a shit about your mediocre gig, or mine. Your ugly grandchildren, or mine? It’s wonderful that we all want to share our thoughts, opinions, dreams, plans, medications, successes, wit, knowledge… our “Me Maps”. And it’s generous that we all try our best to absorb the Me-Maps of those we care about. Beware, however, that as we post the stakes ever expand…and the whirl of our average sunset, child, vacation, problem becomes so tiresome as to send good souls to the feed trough of poetry.