This post is erotic awesome japanese schoolgirls fuck fight uncensored sex videospart of Me, online, Mashable's ongoing series digging into online identities.

"Chill the fuck out," my internet self is constantly shouting to my real-life self.

See, I exist as two personalities: internet me and real-life me. Don't we all? Living in a world of constant connection has led to these funhouse mirror versions of ourselves — they look like us but they're slightly distorted, exaggerated, never quite shaping into a distinguishable human form.

With social media, the funhouse effect is even more amplified. In many cases those identities become proxies for our real-life selves. The internet me interacts with hundreds, if not thousands, of people every day. Real-life me? Well, real-life me would love nothing more than a couple hours of silence and maybe, on some days, to speak only with the person delivering my Seamless.

SEE ALSO: What's your internet personality type?

Enter the conflict: Can real-life me live up to internet me?

When I interact with people in the non-internet world (you know, like actual human beings) who I otherwise primarily communicate with via the internet, anxiety bubbles up. I'm certain that I will never fulfill expectations for the personality I've crafted for myself, hunched over a keyboard and behind an iPhone camera lens.

Social media is a sound bite, a snapshot. You get to show neatly manicured moments without the burden of life’s small talk and unflattering angles. Unfortunately, this presents a problem for our real selves. How can we not feel like failures compared to those other versions of ourselves?

There are no likes in the real world

In the harsh, filter-less light of the real world, no one boops your face, causing a little red heart or thumbs up to appear after you say something clever. Sure, maybe you’ll get a friendly nod or, if you’re so blessed, a hearty chuckle. But the anxious person will always wonder WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

Original image has been replaced. Credit: Mashable

Social media has a standardized and limited vocabulary of approval. It’s a language of red hearts, thumbs up, retweets, and comments. It’s the slow rollout of a one-sided conversation.

Once you get used to the pace of socializing and seeking approval online, looking not at another human but at a phone or laptop or screen of some sort, interacting in real life can feel exhausting, full of difficulty and embarrassing moments.

Let’s compare the two, shall we?

Internet me:

Spends 6 minutes following a stranger’s dog so I can low-key snap the perfect photo

Spends an additional 10 minutes workshopping a clever caption

Edits photo

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Posts photo

Wait 5 minutes. If not enough likes, reworks caption

Replies to friend’s comment with the perfect balance of quirk and charm

Real-life me:

Human friend: “Oh hey, look at that dog.”

Me, out loud: “Dogs are just people without life responsibilities like mortgages.”

Me, internally: “What does that even me? YOUR JOKE WAS BAD. YOU ARE BAD. You should’ve said something about how dog buttholes are just out like ALL THE TIME.”

*conversation continues for 30 agonizing minutes, above scenario on repeat*

Yes, I say stupid shit all the time. Online, I have the buffer of time and editing. In the world, I just leave awkwardness hanging for all to see, like an old lady with her skirt caught in the top of her nylons.

It’s not social media. It’s performance media.

One of the internet’s greatest lies is that social media is, well, social.

We’ve told ourselves that posting on Facebook or Instagram is a form of socializing, but we’re not really socializing, we’re performing. We’re putting on a little show of dog photos and pithy observations, extending our hat and waiting for applause in the form of a like.

One of the internet’s greatest lies is that social media is, well, social.

This is the root of my anxiety, stemming from the idea that who I am online is who I should be in real life. And — even more anxiety-making — the idea that people prefer the internet version of me — someone without under-eye circles or stray eyebrow hairs (thanks, filters!), who always says delightfully quirky things without a hint of awkwardness.

Meanwhile, on a recent morning, while sweating profusely, real-life me retold the story of my diabetic cat burning off part of her face to an audience of stunned-into-silence acquaintances. Sigh.

But maybeno one wants to be the audience of a performer in the casual real world. The performer in me doesn’t engage or listen. The performer hits the joke too hard. The performer wants immediate feedback, not meaningful interaction. In real life, the performer is annoying.

Online, you’re presented with a collection of performances, from different people producing different acts. You can click or like or scroll by. Social media is your own personalized talent show.

Life has no infinite scroll option. Should we even bother trying to live up to our online personas?

The acceptance of two selves

I’ve decided I'd rather be authentically awkward than exhaustedly charming.

That, at least, is the mantra I try to repeat. (I also plan to at least attempt to say fewer stupid things, but that’s a more difficult battle. Dogs with mortgages!)

I also know I’ll never live up to who I am online, because who I am on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter is only a part of the complete picture of me. It may be a part decidedly more clever and attractive than the real-life me. But it’s also grueling to try and be that person all the time.

The performer can stay on the social media stage (and tumble out in full force after a few drinks in real life). But daily life doesn't need theatrics and applause in the form of tiny red hearts. That thirst for the unambiguous approval we gobble up on social media doesn't define who we are as whole selves.

And in that acceptance comes an appreciation for both the spectacle of our internet selves and the awkwardness of our real-life selves. So I’ll take the lingering conversation pauses and bad hair days, just as long as you’ll keep liking my social media posts.

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