I disabled my Facebook account just before I wrote my previous post.
Currently, I’m barely picking at eggplant Parmesan in a cute Arroyo Verde Italian restaurant. This morning, I woke up to a tent full of ants. My end destination is Big Sur.
I’ve been cycling through pop bangers and podcasts. My energy feels all over the place, so I searched for “vacation mode” on Spotify. The podcasts brought me down a rabbit hole to neopaganism and archetypes.
The common thread?
Social media is bad for our mental and spiritual health. I’m addicted to it. My social media addiction is worse than my caffeine addiction.
I started recontributing to New Times’ Night & Day section a few weeks ago. It feels SO good to be writing again.
Being a social media queen is part of my brand. Is that a good thing? It’s good for business.
Every time I disabled an account, my heart pounded and I felt a gripping sensation in my chest.
Why was I panicking over a phone app that monopolized so much of my time?
I’ll still need to use it for work.
I was worried that people wouldn’t be able to find me. I’m very easy to reach.
My lifelong dream was to be a famous writer. Maybe it still is, or maybe it got lost in the shuffle of years of grief and growth.
My favorite writers all had vices, lived colorful lives, and seemed lonely and fucked up.
Do I want to be a Kerouac?
No. I want to be a Melissa Fossum.
I’m a bull in a China shop
I act like an excited golden retriever puppy.
Things will only get better from here.
I didn’t make a farewell post on Facebook.
Part of me hopes someone will notice and reach out.
Facebook is like a fucking drug. I’m going to ride out this withdrawal.