Until recently, I mostly avoided social media. I have an Instagram account that I ignore. I only use Facebook to see which of my friends from high school got fat promote my books. TikTok and I had a brief fling, but one of us got a little obsessed. Okay, it was me. I got obsessed. So I deleted the app. And afterward, I’ve managed to avoid the siren song of social media.

Until Substack.

For those who don’t know, Substack is the platform I’m using to send these newsletters. When I signed up, I naively that was basically all it did. Just another version of Mailchimp. But I was wrong. Once I began using the app, I quickly realized it has all the familiar hallmarks of social media. You create a profile, connect with others, and leap into an endless scroll of content. Most of this content comes in the form of Notes. Which are basically tweets, but less psychotic.

In case you’re wondering what kind of profound wisdom I’m sharing with the world, here’s an example:

During my first three months on the ‘stack, I posted Notes pretty much every day. Sometimes twice a day. Notes aren’t the same as the longer posts (like what you’re reading now). You only see them when you’re sitting on the toilet, avoiding your family while obsessively scrolling using the app.

In the beginning, I would labor over the exact wording of each individual Note, carefully crafting just the right blend of humor and sincerity, of wit and whimsy. And then...when the time was right...I would release my Note into the world like sending a baby bird into flight. At which point, the baby bird would immediately plummet to its death.

In other words, my Notes went unliked and ignored.

During that first month, I felt like a worthless loser reject. Which is pretty much how I always feel. But now I had data to back it up. The app offers notifications to let you know whenever anyone has engaged with your stuff. Except—if nobody’s engaging with your stuff, opening the app feels like a sharp kick to the scrotum. In those early days, this is what I would see whenever checking my notifications.

Okay, not actually that. But it felt like that.

But I stuck with it. And gradually, things got a little better. I gained a few followers. Some people started commenting and liking. I found a little community. A few of my Notes began breaking into double-digits. Some did even better than that. Up until recently, my most successful Note was a witty and trenchant commentary on modern society. Just kidding. It was a picture of my overweight cat.

The Fat Cat Note spent several weeks climbing the algorithmic ladder before finally topping out somewhere around 500. I was astounded by this result. Though maybe I shouldn’t have been. The internet loves adorably pudgy animals.

Weeks went by. I continued tossing Notes into the ether. And then, one fateful Monday late in March, I posted the following Note:

I didn’t think much of it at the time. The memory had been floating around in my head earlier in the day and rather than annoy my wife with a random anecdote, I decided to annoy Substack. I posted it at 8:00 that Monday night. A little while later, I went to sleep.

The next morning, while I was brushing my teeth, I opened the Substack app, and....

I nearly swallowed my toothbrush. How was this possible? I’d only posted the Note eight hours ago. There had to be a mistake! But no. This was real. By the time I was done brushing my teeth, another five people had liked the Note. By breakfast, it was up to 900 likes.

Reader, I had gone viral.

I’ve always been a bit curious about what it’s like to go viral. Maybe you have too. Or maybe you’ve had your own brief glimpses of internet fame. Either way, I thought it might be instructive to take you through my weeklong journey from Obscure Funny Guy to A-List Substack Celeb.

You ready? Let’s do this!

Is this a glitch? Is this happening because I dropped my phone in a bowl of oatmeal this morning? Eight hundred likes overnight! I haven’t felt this kind of appreciation since I caught a pop-up ball at a minor league baseball game. As I heaved the ball into the air, the crowd erupted into applause. But their adoration instantly turned to outrage when they realized I’d (inadvertently) shoved a 12-year-old girl out of my way in my eagerness to grab the ball.

This is like that. Except I didn’t even have to push a tween out of the way to achieve it.

When a celebrity reaches a certain level of fame, their fans take on a moniker of their own. Taylor Swift fans are known as Swifties. Katy Perry’s are KatyCats. And of course, Kanye West fans are Raging Antisemites.

My thriving fanbase needs a name too. This growing community of people across the world, all linked by their love of my Note. And I know just the name!

The Bacon Bits!!!

(Because my name is Lee Bacon. Get it?)

The Bacon Bits love me, and I love them back. I show them this by replying to their comments. Each and every one.

I grew up in a stable household with supportive parents. I’ve been married for nearly 17 years. I have two beautiful, adoring children. I thought I knew what real love and acceptance felt like.

Boy, was I wrong!

The purest form of love is the kind you get from randos on the internet. Because that love can be measured. When your spouse gives you a hug, this act of human affection doesn’t show up in any data analytics breakdown. But when thousands of strangers click a little heart button...HOO, BOY! That shows up in your stats! And when you click the notification button, the dopamine kick is like a drug.

Sorry, honey. You can never love me like social media.

I mean, just look at these stats:

Uh oh. It seems a rift is beginning to form among the Bacon Bits. In the beginning, their love was pure and true. But that’s beginning to change. Among the flood of support and appreciation, other sentiments have begun to bubble up. People are latching onto one specific passage from the note: “Whoever you are, sweet, generous woman...”

Do you see the offensive part? I sure didn’t. Not until my detractors began pointing it out to me in the comments.

“Whoever you are?” Didn’t you get her name?

What was her name?

Why didn’t you ask her name?

A certain cohort of the commentators are incensed at my casual disregard for this woman, this “sweet, generous woman,” who took time out of her night to support my book event. Why didn’t I at least get her name? And maybe her contact info? Why wasn’t I mailing her a card every Christmas to say, “Thanks again, [INSERT NAME OF WOMAN]”?

I try pointing out that this all took place six years ago. I chatted with the woman after the event. I probably even asked her name. But in the years since, the name had slipped my mind. And now all that remains is a memory of her smile in a sea of empty seats.

I explain all this in the comments. But it doesn’t do any good.

Much like at that minor league baseball game, I have gone from hero to villain.

But never mind the haters! I’m above them! When you rise to great heights, you become a bigger target. But that’s over now. All of a sudden, I understand why top celebrities (like me) erect gates around their homes and beef up their security. You can’t let the fans too close. They’ll only take advantage of you. No more nice replies from me. I’m retreating into my gated mansion. You’ll only hear from me when I emerge to deliver you my next beautiful and beloved Note. Which is basically a hundred percent guaranteed to do even BIGGER numbers! The sky’s the limit now! I’ll be famous forever! This will never end!!!!

As soon as I wake up, I check my status. Last night, my Note was up to 2.1k likes. But now, after eight whole hours, I’m guessing it’s skyrocketed all the way up to...

2.1k likes?

I don’t understand. Something must be wrong. Not a single like? All night? That’s impossible. All week, I’ve watched the numbers go up and up and up. And now...they just...stop? Without any warning? There must be a problem. I close the app and reopen it.

But the number is still stuck at 2.1k.

Slowly, the truth dawns on me. My wild ride into the stratosphere of viral fame has ended just as suddenly as it began.

After it’s all over, after the likes and comments stop pouring in, after my next few Notes attract only a trickle of attention, after the Bacon Bits abandon me, after the statistics level off and things return to normal...

What remains?

What remains is what was there the whole time. My family. And while their affection can’t be measured and broken down into data points, it’s all that actually matters. When your kid jumps into your lap and wraps her arms around you—this is real. You can actually feel her. Especially when she knees you in the crotch.

I’m lucky that I have an entire life outside the internet. I have a family that loves me and cats that tolerate me. I write books that I can actually hold in my hands. Books that will still be read long after my Notes have faded into the digital oblivion.

Substack has been a great experience for me. I genuinely enjoy writing this newsletter. And it’s been truly wonderful to get so many nice emails and comments from the people who read it. I’ve found a community of fellow relentless content creators human beings who are funny and wise and generous.

But when I close the app and all that goes away, my family is still there. As I write this now (at 5:03am), they’re all upstairs, in their rooms, sleeping. Soon they’ll wake up and the house will fill with sounds. The cats will beg for breakfast. The chaos will begin.

I can’t wait.

Thanks so much for reading this week’s edition of Mistakes Were Made! You can support my writing by:

❤️ Liking this post

💬 Leaving a comment (I love hearing from you guys!)

➡️ Sharing or restacking this post so others can find it

😍 Becoming a subscriber (it’s free!)

📚 Buying one of my books (find them here!)

See you next week!

Lee

Leave a comment