Worship. How humankind loves to worship. There are people, men to be specific, who by way of bots and the mindless masses who may as well be bots, establish a constipated form of celebrity on social media. You know them: the alpha personas. Murky avatars focusing on biceps; every tweet, vine and sundry utterance seemingly shot from their oiled and rippling loins. These are the guys who couldn’t get laid to save their life in high school, and they’re coming on all hard via ISP.
One such individual is currently trending as a result of his being accused of rape. A nobody who, pelvis forward, built a vine following of over a million and is—as I type this—gloating over how these accusations have helped make this popularity happen. No press is bad press and all that.
He’s one. There’s more.
The question is not “What’s wrong with this guy” we KNOW that, it’s “What’s wrong with you?” With us?
Are we so starved for attention that the attentions of even the lowest form of “celebrity” would cause us to compromise our safety? Do we worship lesser gods in hopes those gods will notice us? The crush of groupies against the backstage door (which I’ve seen with my own eyes) for The Rolling Stones or David Bowie is one thing, but addled adoration of a simple online smartass is quite another.
Blaming the victim? No. Nobody is a victim until somebody victimizes them. And if power leads to excess, and excess begets abuse, we must think longer and harder about who we “follow” and why.
I see them every day. The charming braggarts who seem to start with more followers than I’ve managed to earn (note choice of word) over five years. The insta-celebs whose popularity alone (while unexplained by their talent) is enough to drag countless and clueless teens and pre-teens into their wake like gravitational pull.
Social media is high school.
To be popular you have to be popular.
And just as in high school, you’re best not to get into the back seat with one of the cool kids.
For fucks sake. Stop worshipping.