Twenty-four-year-old Justine Ezarik, who goes by the moniker “iJustine," is bouncing around on my computer screen in a pink tank top and black bra, her platinum hair—ordinarily perfectly straight— increasingly mussed as she works herself into a frenzy about something. I have turned my computer’s sound off, so I don’t know what’s making her widen her heavily made-up eyes, flail her head from side to side, and fix the camera with an open-mouthed pout. My boyfriend glances at my screen as he walks by—and stops in his tracks and watches.

Now, I don’t want to speak ill of those more successful or famous than us. But let’s sit here for a minute and contemplate how utterly fucking meta this is. And if you don’t know who the author is, you’re so incredibly lucky. But let me introduce you to her: she is the template for modern online oversharing by a female audience and she is making it a-ok to dump your livejournal to represent reporting.

Then again, maybe that’s all this is. Sigh.