Dear Youtube Tutorials . . .

insideout
November 8, 2012
This article was published more than 2 years ago.
Est. Reading Time: 2 minutes

By: Yara Farran

 

Dear YouTube Tutorials,

I’ve figured you out. It didn’t take much effort, just a few sleepless nights and a half empty lasagna tray.

I discovered your inner workings and the construction of your soul (that is, if you even have one). You may market yourselves as something for all people to enjoy, what with your deceiving screen caps and alluring blurbs. However, dear YouTube tutorials, you are not beneficial to my growth as an individual. You do not truly nourish the side of my spirit that likes to indulge in back to school fashion or experimental hairstyles. Instead, you force me to sit at my computer, dedicate time that I do not have, give out love that I cannot spare, just so that I can watch you explain bobby-pin tricks. Well guess what? I’ve had enough of you and your fickle nature (don’t whisper sweet nothings into my ear—you have 15 thousand other subscribers to woo).

Remember that time when I had an assignment and you told me it would be okay if we spent 15 minutes together? I complied, popped some popcorn and intently listened as you explained the differences between a kabuki brush and a powder brush. You took advantage of my naïveté. Maybe it was your smoldering HD gaze and that moving, sharp sound that made me forget that I don’t even own such brushes. Do you recall that winter evening when the snow fell violently outside? The house smelled like freshly baked goods (thanks Costco!) and was warmed by the crackling fire. I was about to do some leisurely reading, but you decided to interrupt with your know-it-all attitude. As you beckoned me, a sense of excitement coursed through my veins. I rationalized that watching one video would be nice before I delved into my novel. I was wrong again. We spent the entire night sharing skincare tips and Christmas makeup advice. The fire soon died out and my novel lay untouched on the table.

If that wasn’t enough, you’ve impeded on my social life as well. Instead of discussing our lives, or divulging in the latest personal discoveries, my friends and I talk about you.

“You can make a vest out of a scarf!” A friend once said.

“You can put mayo/flour/the tears of virgins in your hair.” Another friend revealed over the phone.

“You can repurpose your hair elastics into small scale weaponry,” another whispered excitedly, “really cute weaponry.”

You know what the worst part about this whole thing is? It’s the fact that you don’t even care. I may hand over my precious time and dispel my inner secrets and insecurities to you, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m a number—just another subscriber and believer to your quick-fix gospel. And so, while you gain more fame and fortune (did you just get a MAC Cosmetics contract?), I will learn to rid myself of your materialistic clutches.

I will free myself from home remedies and chunky cable knit sweater ensembles.

Yours no longer,

Kabuki Brush-Less Viewer

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