On Sasha Grey, American Apparel Models, and Searching for the “Real” Thing
Like, I get it. You want to represent the “cool” you on your blog. The you that is into pictures of topless, deadpan boys in the forest or a haunted house. But seriously? You don’t look jaded. You look ignorant. The world is shitty enough without your personal, tragic narrative of indifference.
By Sara David
My Tumblr dashboard has been inundated with empty-eyed, thin, white, cisgendered hipster models, or Sasha Grey. Whenever this happens, I get angry, I unfollow more people than I really need to, and I quit the internet for a little while.
I know that this is an ongoing conversation, but will someone please explain to me the appeal of these people? Is it really attractive that someone with stringy, greasy hair and an empty face doesn’t seem to care about anything at all?
Like, I get it. You want to represent the “cool you” on your blog. The you that’s into pictures of topless, deadpan boys in the forest or a haunted house. But seriously? You don’t look jaded. You look ignorant. The world is shitty enough without your personal, tragic narrative of indifference.
Apathy isn’t something one should be proud of, and it isn’t something one should be striving for. Apathy is death. When I was at the lowest point of my depression, my apathy was all-consuming. Here’s the truth: it was terrifying. And I couldn’t stop thinking, “What if this is it? What if one day, I wake up, and realize that I never felt a thing?”
Playing pretend with your indifference is foolish and dangerous.
But maybe I’m just playing fast and loose with my feelings. Today, I found out a classmate of mine just died. We danced together in a class two years ago, and he told me that I was a beautiful mover. He had absolutely no reservations admitting this to me, and we barely knew each other. He was unabashed and real.
Call me crazy, but that’s what I love to see in people. Fire, passion, feeling, and desire. I want you to tell me what you DO give a fuck about, I want you to laugh loudly and freely, and I want you to tell me what you want from life. I want you to show me that you care about things, because who has time for ennui and faking it?
Wake up. Wake up and tell me how you really feel. Put away your cigarettes and blank stares. Get angry or elated or horny or tearful. Love a little, and live a lot. Don’t buy into the “disinterested” aesthetic – because I think you’re really fucking interesting. So show me your interests, that you’ve got the “real” thing because it’s real for you, that you’re a human who cares even when everything is screaming your impermanence.
And while you’re at it, wash your fucking hair. 
