Why Snapchat Is Your Enemy

If you still don’t know what Snapchat is by now, there is probably no hope for you. Snapchat is an app available on phones and tablets (Android and iOS) that allows you to send pictures and short videos that will ‘self-destruct’ after a set number of seconds. In addition, you can also add captions and draw on the snap you have taken, meaning you can get as creative as you want with it. Unsurprisingly, Snapchat’s key demographic is young people, or ‘youths’ as I like to call them (I’m actually about 80 years old) and if you show me someone between the age of 14 and 24 who doesn’t have it, I will be genuinely surprised. Then I’ll call them lame because Snapchat is fucking awesome. Misleading title, eh?

The prevailing reason for why I am such a Snapchat lover is pretty simple; I just really enjoy making weird faces. If there’s anything you’ll come away with from spending a few hours with me, it’s these two little things: I make a lot of faces and I make a lot of noises. As they are generally weird and unattractive, I’d rather not have concrete evidence of them in the forms of pictures and voice notes for people to mock me with – I have already provided them with an abundance of ammunition. So, enter Snapchat – the perfect medium to allow me to express myself whenever and where ever I want. Just last night I sent out a little video of me singing the Oreo chant from Wreck-It Ralph, because, why not? I won’t lie, it wasn’t well received, but, whatever, my friends are lame.

I know what you’re thinking. Awesome, right?

Of course, you always run the risk of someone taking a screenshot of whatever you have sent them, but, as you can see, I tend to keep it pretty PG so have nothing to worry about. Snapchat, or ‘Snatchchat’ as the cool kids call it, quickly took off as the ‘safe’ way to send dirty pictures. But, as we all know, due to that pesky screenshot function, there’s a solid chance your half naked selfie will end up on a poorly named Facebook page. Being the respectable and graceful young woman that I am, I don’t send dirty Snapchats. Whether this is because my mama taught me better than that, or because I’d rather not scare boys away with my abundance of jiggle straight off the bat, we’ll never know. If it’s something you’re into, though, good for you. Just don’t send me a picture of your dick. I don’t want that.

So, obvious screenshot issues aside, why is Snapchat your enemy? Why would I even suggest such a notion when I’m clearly all over it like Pooh Bear on a jar of honey? Could I have used a more innocent simile? Do you believe that I just Googled simile to make sure I had the right word? So. Many. Questions.

#1  Snapchat makes you forget that there are boundaries you shouldn’t cross. It makes you feel like you’re Bradley Cooper in that movie where he keeps popping pills. It makes you feel like the answer to everything is the same as the answer to the last question in the Mathlete competition in Mean Girls. But I have news for you; you are not limitless. The limit does exist. Just because you sent a picture of your balls for two seconds and then it disappeared, it doesn’t make it okay. Just because you sent a picture of you in your bra to a boy you know has a girlfriend, but then it disappeared, it doesn’t mean you’re not a homewrecker.

#2  You can’t see what you’ve sent once you’ve sent it. For the casual alcoholics amongst us, this is a real issue. I can’t tell you how many Snapchats I’ve drunkenly sent, which means I can’t tell you what they’re of or what they say. It’s entirely likely I have sent a couple of dirty ones, because, let’s be honest, I’m neither respectable nor graceful, but I genuinely have no idea whether I have or not. It’s pretty clear what the problem with this is; just because you were drunk and woke up having forgotten that you sent anything inappropriate, it’s more than likely that the recipient of said Snapchat wasn’t and didn’t. Subsequently, this can go one of two ways; it’ll have either piqued their interest and you may get laid out of it, or they’ll feel embarrassed for you and your relationship will never be the same again. But you were drunk, right? So it didn’t count? And it disappeared? So it’s like it never happened? NO. You dumb slut.

#3  Snapchat is not a loophole. Again, no more of this ‘it disappeared so it doesn’t count‘ malarkey. I won’t lie, I’m more guilty than Oscar Pistorious when it comes to this. I know it’s easy to think that a Snapchat conversation is harmless and you’re not actually engaging with someone you shouldn’t be, but you’re wrong. It 100% counts and you 100% won’t feel good about it. Cutting a person out of your life means cutting them off on Snapchat, too. Dramatic, but true.

#4  Snapchat Bestfriends. One of Snapchat’s fun little features is that it shows who your three ‘best friends’ are, ie, the three people you Snapchat the most. As my real life best friend found out recently, people (especially girls) actually look at who these best friends are. The girl that he is currently seeing looked at his Snapchat best friends, saw that she was one of them, and asked who the other two girls were. One is a girl he slept with whilst seeing her, and the other is his ex-girlfriend of a bajillion years that he never stops talking about and is still in love with. Awkward. Although I don’t have a problem with this feature, I don’t at all understand it. Whatsapp doesn’t inform all your contacts who you talk to the most, why does Snapchat? Bizarre.

Are you a Snapchat lover or hater? Have you had any mishaps with the app?

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‘I don’t know you won’t put me in a suitcase..’

Let’s be honest; the internet can be pretty fucking shady. You never know what’s really going on or who you’re really talking to. We’ve all seen Catfish; relative anonymity is a powerful tool. So, when it comes to internet dating, or meeting anyone from any kind of social media platform, really, you can never be too careful. I grew up in a fairly protective household, and although I thought my parents overdid it, their weariness of strangers has definitely rubbed off on me. You don’t know who’s sitting behind the keyboard; everyone is a potential rapist or murderer.

Save for when I was 15 and would talk to strangers over MSN and MySpace, I had no real experience in talking to people I didn’t know until my friends and I all got ourselves on Tinder last summer. My initial impressions weren’t great, as the first message I received was:

You look like you’re a naughty girl.

Needless to say, he was promptly blocked. Slightly more wary, I continued to sift through the abundance of unappealing boys with no chat until I came across one who was basically my twin. We got along like a house on fire, and ended up talking consistently for days. After a few days, he started to mention that we should meet up, which, of course, scared me shitless. I’d already sort of eliminated the Catfish worry, as we’d obviously already exchanged Snapchats by then, and I had indeed confirmed that he was the same boy in his pictures. To be honest, though, as Tinder profiles are connected to Facebook profiles, I’m not overly worried about someone not physically being the same person. Sure, he may be the brown haired boy in the suit, but so was Patrick Bateman.

YOU WOULD NEVER KNOW

After endless excuses, I finally admitted that I was just plain ol’ scared – that I didn’t know he wouldn’t put me in a suitcase. He thought I was being irrational, I was as serious as I’d ever been. That week, a girl in her mid-twenties had been found in a suitcase near where I live, and her murderer has only just been found guilty. Stories like this, sadly, come around far too often – you really never can be too careful. Before you start, I obviously don’t mean to trivialise what happened to this poor girl. It’s just that sometimes you can’t just say, ‘sorry, I’m scared you’ll rape and murder me’. Like I said, the internet is pretty fucking shady, and you can never be too careful. So, without further ado, here are some of the results of the ‘suitcase line’..

W – The first time I threw this worry out there, the first time I ever met anyone off of the internet, was with W. When I first met him at a pub around the corner from the library, he whatsapped me saying, ‘I’ll be the one with the suitcase’ – I laughed, but it didn’t put me at ease. Two days later, when I ended up in his bedroom, he pointed out everything that he would be able to fit me in if he chopped me up. I felt at ease when it dawned on me that boys may also have reservations when it comes to going home with strangers – as we were falling asleep he mumbled, ‘don’t steal my shit while I’m sleeping’. Classic.

J – Click the link for some context on this kid; it’ll help infinite amounts. To summarise, though, J was essentially a massive toff and, unsurprisingly, was not amused by my suitcase fears. Obviously he was just boring. When he met me at the station and we started walking towards the pub, he said that he had considered picking me up in his car because it was raining. He then went on to explain that he didn’t because he knew I wouldn’t be cool with getting into a stranger’s car, especially as his car has tinted windows and looks a little bit rapey. As he saw my brow start to furrow, he quickly let out a nervous, ‘and there’s a suitcase in the back’. My mouth literally dropped. I decided he was kidding. So, after a brief return to his house for more drinks and ‘privacy’, I let him give me a lift back to the station. I tentatively opened the front passenger side door to the rape car and peered around the front seat. Lo and behold, there it was – a big arse suitcase. I got in the car regardless as I figured that if he was going to murder me, he would have done it already. I ignore his messages now.

P – This kid was undoubtedly the cutest. He had a youngish face and seemed really sweet, which obviously meant I needed to be extra careful. He laughed off the suitcase line with an, ‘I only have a duffel’ and I was hooked. He added me on Facebook to put me at ease and off I went to meet him for sex drinks. Drinks went swimmingly – he was boyishly charming and I was endearingly awkward – so we moved the party back to his. He had told me that night that he was in the process of moving house, so I expected to walk into a mess of a flat. However, what I found myself in was far, far worse. The place was barren. BARREN. There was literally nothing there but the furniture that came with the place. The fridge was unplugged. There were no toiletries in the bathroom. THERE WERE NO SHEETS ON THE BED. I knew it; he was going to murder me. This was the most suitcasey situation, ever. I questioned him endlessly. Was this even his flat?! Eventually he threw me on the bed and had his way with me. His innocent little face was a lie. He fucked like Christian Bale in American Psycho (minus the mirror). I stopped waiting for a suitcase and started anticipating a fucking chainsaw. As you can see, though, I survived to tell the tale.

There have been other miscellaneous responses – I get a lot of, ‘could you fit in a suitcase?’ Sorry, are you implying that I’m huge? Some boys play along, some boys think it’s insensitive – so it’s also kind of a way to gauge how fucking dull they are, too. Essentially, though, my point is that you should always be safe. Always meet in public places and always let someone know where you are. Don’t let anyone put you in a situation where you feel uncomfortable or at risk. They WILL try to do this; I am genuinely shocked by the amount of boys that think I will just turn up on their doorstep without having properly vetted them first. Men are morons.

Breaking Patterns – no advice given

The other night, in typical single girl fashion, I was sprawled out across the sofa watching Sex And The City. The episode was centred on the idea of dating ‘patterns’, how we all have them, and how hard they are to break. Obviously this prompted a ‘thought provoking’ question from Carrie:

Are we all, in fact, just dating the same person over and over again?

I don’t think the writers dug too deep with this one as it’s fairly obvious. But hey, here I am writing about it, too. Essentially, everyone has a type. In my mind, my type is tall, dark and handsome – like Superman.

could anything make you more weak in the knees?!

In reality, however, my type is cunts; just the most awful people I could possibly find. I’m drawn to them like a hipster to a beanie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking typical cool, bad boy sort of guy here – there is nothing cool about the boys I get involved with. They’re just straight up bad people.

And I know it. I know it’s my pattern. I see it coming every single time. But I never break it. I don’t even try.

And because it’s my pattern, and everybody knows it, it has been analysed during girl chats a fair few times. This has come up more than once…

go see/read ‘The Perks of Being A Wallflower’ if you haven’t already!

Now, I don’t like to think of this as true in regards to myself. Mainly because it makes me look a little bit pathetic and like I don’t think I deserve to be treated nicely. Maybe I don’t. I don’t know. I’m not that in tune with my feelings.

I think it’s more likely that I’m just a glutton for punishment. I put myself in a position to be hurt over and over again by the same type of person, if not the same person themselves. And I make it so easy for them. I line myself up in front of the target board, move it a few feet closer, and become a fucking sitting duck. Just waiting for them to take a shot. My vital organs practically begging to accommodate their bullets.

If you’re a regular reader, you may know that the most recent major antagonist in my life story is W. We still snapchat. We still whatsapp. He’s still a cunt. I still let him be a cunt to me. Every interaction ends in me being upset or angry – predominantly angry, though. There have been a fair few of these incidents recently, though I don’t want to get into them as I like to look the least pathetic and lame I possibly can. Just know that none went well, and that my point is that I knew that they wouldn’t. Every time I reply or instigate a message or a snapchat, I know that it’ll end badly. End badly for me, that is. He couldn’t give a fuck. It leads to a lot of feeling like this…

Sometimes I think I’m breaking the pattern. I’ll go on a date with a nice boy who’s polite and doesn’t make it an aim to try to make me cry. And then I’ll never text him again and text one of the boys who’s rude to me instead.

If you have the answer, please don’t hesitate to enlighten me. In the mean time, though, I don’t see anything changing. I think I’m just waiting for this…

Aren’t we all, though?

Snapchat Antagonism

After my Snapchat Relapse, I messaged W and told him that such mini lapses in judgement couldn’t happen again and that they were unfair on me. He responded with

I can help. Fuck off shit head.

There is genuinely something wrong with me that this made me smile. After a few more of these exchanges, we said goodbye.

Obviously all snapchatting did not cease, but it did become a little bit more sparse. Today, however, I went crazy; snapchat crazy that is, I don’t do the whole psycho girl thing. Now, I tend to snapchat a lot anyway; probably more than is acceptable. But I’d definitely stopped sending the majority of them to W. Yet today I somehow found myself sending him all of them – even ones that weren’t being sent to multiple contacts, just him.

WHY?

I think it was partly that I was still recovering from being ill the days before, and partly because every single one I sent got some variation of ‘fuck off’ or ‘fuck the fucking fuck off’.

I’m not quite sure what made me keep going. He stopped when I sent one captioned ‘am I antagonising you?’

Maybe I was. Maybe he was trying to antagonise me. Maybe he really was trying to keep me from allowing myself to relapse again. I don’t know. But I had fun with it. What does that say about me?

Snapchat Relapse

It’s no great secret that boys never really, truly let you go. Even when you think you’re out of their douchey, lying clutches, they claw you back in. They want to ensure that they are always on your mind. After all, no one likes to be forgotten. This happened to me last night when I got a snapchat from W. Now, he still snapchats me fairly regularly, and when I am tired or not really thinking about it, I slip up and reply. At the end of the day, it’s only snapchat, right? What’s the worst that could happen?

Last night, however, we had a full blown snapchat conversation. It was just so natural and easy to do, I hated him even more for taking such a good friendship away from me. At one point he tried to move the chat to whatsapp, but when I failed to reply, probably realised that snapchat was the only relapse loophole I was allowing myself.

My personal favourite was a snapchat of my Winnie the Pooh teddy with the caption ‘dumb enough to get stuck in the honey trap‘. Hilarious, right? Couldn’t think of a more apt metaphor. Of course it quickly devolved into snapchats about banging. Because I’m an idiot. I tried to stay on the offensive as much as possible; he said bitchy doesn’t suit me. Apparently I can be a cunt, but not a bitch. Can someone explain that to me, please?

Over two hours later, the conversation ended with a snapchat captioned ‘relapse over‘. I knew I was stupid for having played along, but I felt relatively okay about it. Then this morning, due to unrelated events, I almost cried. I’ve literally cried once in the last 15 years. I really wanted to talk to him afterwards. Not even about it, because that’s just not something I do, but because I knew he would make me feel better. I would say anything, he would say something offensive – I would feel warm and nostalgic and like all was right with the world again.

What is wrong with me?