Modern Day Urban Decay: the group chat

Author

cooter doodle
October 23, 2023

Check on your friends who are about to dive head first into a brand new hobby.

Not me though.

I’ve always loved carbs. Let’s get into it:

[one hit wonders]

The first time that I can remember experiencing an existential crisis was while listening to Closing Time in the back of my mom’s white Pontiac (or Buick[1]).

I was seven at the time. And like all children do when staring out of a window on long drives, I was thinking about god and the universe and this boy named Derek who lived down my street.

But as the sugarcane and street signs passed by, my mind was stuck in a loop. I kept trying to map out a timeline of how everything in the universe began. I knew I came from my mom, and she came from hers, and her mother from hers… but I couldn’t seem to satisfy myself with any of these answers. Family trees don’t explain the birth of stars.

But if “every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end,” then surely there must always be some other beginning, regardless of how far back in time you trace. And so the loop continued: “Then what happened before that?”

Why I decided to tackle the origins of the universe before puberty is a question in it’s own right.

At this point in time, my life revolved around televised threats of green slime and daydreams of Erik von Detten. My tiny brain, fueled by Sunny D and Slim Jims, wasn’t equipped for such questions. And eventually, it was much easier to conclude that the singer from Semisonic had lied.

How was I going to solve something that astrophysicists only talk about in riddles, anyway? And if I’m being honest with you[2], theories of what happened 15 billion years ago paled in comparison to the crush that I had on Derek from down the street.

He was tangible. Our bike rides and sunflower seeds and skinned knees - those were real. I didn’t need Neil deGrasse Tyson to explain that to me.

But soon enough, the song ended and my mom put the car[3] in park. As we stepped outside, I was forced to leave my existentialism behind, inside of that Bontiac Puick. I couldn’t be bothered with it any longer once my feet had touched the ground.

Now, at 35, I’m still unable to answer those questions[4]. And I’m starting to accept the fact that I never will. It’s been three decades since that car ride, but anytime Semisonic comes on the radio, I can never quite bring myself to press “skip”.

Editor’s note: [5]

[1] It was a car. I know that much.
[2] I always am. <3
[3] I’m bothered by the fact that I can’t remember if it was a Pontiac or a Buick. I spent so many years inside of that car. I remember the navy, cloth seats. The seat belt that always got stuck. The french fry I dropped under my feet and never found.
[4] Is there a god? What existed before the universe? Did Derek ever like me back?
[5] I caved and finally called my mom for intel. The car was a white Chevy Lumina[6].
[6] Let this be your final warning. I am a ‘naif narrator’.

Things That I Like More Than Usual, Specifically Because It’s October

The Age of the Group Chat

I will openly share my age, my weight, and my body count[1] . I’ll show you every single book I’ve purchased and I’ll admit how many of them I will never come close to finishing[2] . But there is one area of my life that I keep quantifiably hidden: my ever-growing list of group chats.

No. I do not know how many I’m in. And I’m ashamed to admit it, but lately, I’ve been spread beyond my chit-chatting means.

We all are.

Faith Hill writes about our overwhelming text bubbles in her recent piece, Group-Chat Culture Is Out of Control. And after considering her points of view, I think it’s worth our time to at least start taking inventory of our group chats and the time we spend in them.

My group chats are like 90s sit-coms at this point. I have the main group, sure. But we also have way too many spin-offs with different variations of those members. And each group chat comes with it’s own specific caveats.

But time is finite. And lately, I’ve just been going through the motions:

  1. delay opening bc busy

  2. find free time

  3. open (reluctantly, bc it’s been hours and I already feel left behind)

  4. scroll/skim

  5. respond (if the topic is still temporally relevant)

  6. repeat

And I find myself riddled with questions I’ll never actually ask: Do my friends feel let down if they don’t get immediate responses? Are we allowed to just skim? If I’m super busy, can I just not catch up at all? If I don’t contribute anything of substance for a few days, am I allowed to share a personal story without judgement a week later? 

Most importantly, do these artificial rules for participation exist only within my own mind or are these collective murky waters something that we’re all trying to navigate through?

I’d argue the latter. And because of this, I’d like to assume there is a healthy level of forgiveness baked in to each group chat. We intrinsically recognize that everyone we know cannot be constantly plugged in on all fronts at all times[3] .

But it is fun to joke about.

excerpt from the Soap chat, 2023

The balance, I think, comes in the form of knowing where to expend your resources. That is, knowing which group chats bring you joy. The others, which Hill refers to as “Zombie Groups,” should be left for dead.

To be clear, the existence of Zombie Groups doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy the people in them. Sometimes group chats just… dissolve into something else. Something less than. And ultimately, Zombie Groups don’t feed your brain like they used to.

To my group chats: I want tight-knit camaraderie, but I want the option to have space. I want access to the moments that I’ve missed, but I don’t want to be held accountable for catching up on all of those moments when I miss them. I want to interact with you at all times, except for the times when I don’t because life is happening.

It’s a rock and a hard place.

But cutting back on the unnecessary iterations, spin-offs, and unfulfilling groups is at least a start. Right?

So if you see “cooterdoodle has left the chat,” know this: It’s not you, it’s me. I’m into skeletons, not zombies.

[1] I’m the youngest person I know, so I can say this word.
[2] I’m on page 23 of Oppenheimer. Sue me.
[3] Aside from Denny Carter, who has never logged off.

until next time. - cd