postsecret.com

I saw something terrible today. I found out postsecret.com has organized an event tour that has sold out in 6 cities, including Chicago. I mean, is Margaret Cho gunna be there? This is sick.

Self proclaimed as "an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a postcard," I read my friend this description today and her response was, "I'm already annoyed." And that's just it. Postsecret.com is incredibly annoying. If its mediocre content, ablaze with overly dramatic, sacran, pathetic, obnoxious, corny, depressing and aesthetically challenged confessionals don't bug you, its obscene success in the form of 4 book publications, international blogs in German, Chinese, French, and Spanish, attention from media outlets, museums, Bloggie awards, the Suicide Girls and now, 6 sold-out events, will definitely rub you the wrong way. Postsecret.com's success is a screaming testament to the emotionally exploitative, self-congradulating, voyeuristic culture we currently champion, and Frankly, My Dear, It's Disgusting.

Each secret is one train wreck after another. Neck Benders delight. This week's secrets were especially awful featuring a Valentine's day theme of broken hearted, lovey schmultzy, hallmark holiday hoopla. Rarely do the secrets exhibit a hint of irony, or embody any non-cliche expressions of sincerity. Christ, half of them aren't even secrets, "This postcard is a tribute to all of us who fell in love with our ex's...only to get hurt all over again." puke. ahem. barf. ahem. vomit. I will admit, some are funny...okay fine, just that one: I make $150,000 a year and work for a non-profit. That one still gets me.

Now would be a good time to disclose the reason I even know about postsecret.com. After around 9 months of living in rural Japan, working with the infamous JET program, I had hit rock bottom. I was spending my days sniffing at my desk right before sneaking off to the bathroom to weep, while trying to maintain the illusion that my existence existed. My only sources of comfort were 50% off B-list American rentals on Tuesday nights and these shriveled little twin hot dog packs I could get at 1 in every 17 vending machines.

I was so desperate for some form of catharsis beyond my VHS collection of Sex and the City episodes, that I turned emphatically to the Internet. I visited people.com, gofugyourself.com, and gawker.com several times a day to justify my life as a non-celebrity which was, at least, without ridicule. The hideous fat teacher pants I wore every day would go happily unnoticed and although poor, miserable and addicted to mayonnaise, at least I was FREE. I liked seeing Kirstin Dunst get flack for her saggy tits and trash-bag dresses, Li-lo's hole ripped for wearing the same pair of leggings three days in a row, Bai-Ling's...everything. It filled me with the kind of immediate gratification on par with dipping a bacon wrapped snickers in chocolate milk. Oh yeah. It was good. Deleriously good.

But it wasn't enough. There was no amount of bacon snickers Scarlet Jo Brangelina gossip that could fill the void. I was really low, reading about people I didn't know, (Emmie Rossum? Who?Still don't know) watching trailers to their miserable summer blockbusters, IMBDing teen celebrities who put me through puberty (JTT, Devon Sawa, Andrew Keegan and of course Mike Vitar aka Benny the Jet LOVE OF LIFE). I even befriended Claire Danes on Friendster. I was completely Obsessica, neurotically scouring the Internet landscape for ANYTHING to distract me from my sadness. Then, one glorious day I hit the hotlinks jackpot. The Bloggie Nominations page. This was where I discovered postsecret.com.

It had everything I wanted. Sad Sacks R' Us with a creative twist. There were tons of failed relationships that made my bitter singleness seem like a winning lottery ticket, abusive parents, backstabbing friends, relentless lying, incest, porn. It was great. And it was better than celebrity gossip because it was real. PAIN. Real autobiographical PAIN, written by my god-fearing American comrades who I'd trust with my life, heaven or high water.

The true captains of my misery boat, these anonymous secret keepers were my friends. My fcked up, dim witted, cornball friends, that I could, no matter what, feel a million times better than. I read religiously. I dug through the archives crying, laughing, even farting a few times. Postsecret.com was the genius invention to soothe my suffering. Just knowing that people had it worse, gave me something to look forward to. I was not the only tear-streaked freak out there.

Postsecret.com took me through weeks of self-loathing. But as expected it was not enough. And in retrospect, it was way too much. I had to teach myself to meditate, stop eating mayonnaise and LOG THE HELL OFF. Oh and also decide to leave Japan. So, today when I visited postsecret.com for the first time since International Meltdown '07, a lot of painful memories were dredged up- along with a little perspective: That was a sad time, and a sad reason to like a really lame website. So I guess the secret's out. I HATE postsecret.com