One cannot be expected to march full-bore into an interpersonal relationship based on no common ground. How ill-advised would that be? The issue, however, lies with the fact that where shared obstacles and interests might be enough material to last the star-crossed lovers and hetero life mates of the carefully edited and encapsulated multiverse of film, literature, and story for the brief entirety of their public lives, the real world is rarely so dynamic or exciting. There are gaps and valleys in the everyday minutiae that cannot be filled in with erudite banter about the oeuvre of post-rock and postmodernism. Even before the initial shine fades, relationships—real relationships—consist mainly of long stretches of dull, prosaic moments that can be traversed only by a wearied, begrudging, and ultimately loving acceptance of the very real human being opposite you. Once the great screaming fights happen—and they will assuredly happen—one cannot simply hold up a boom box, blast Peter Gabriel, and make everything better. Relationships, friendships—even ones that take place predominantly online—these are things which require a fathomless connection and understanding in order to expand beyond anything superficial, and to acquire those things one must first dig deep beyond the marrow and expose oneself. But in an overly self-aware culture where nothing is sacred and everything is ridiculed, the prospect of being willingly vulnerable is terrifying. There is a palpable risk here of being hurt, of having the fundamental you-ness be weighed and measured and found wanting, whether by complete strangers or people you could see yourself loving, and it becomes so much easier to, in a sense, not be a real person—to simply be a series of likes and dislikes and perfunctory information; a picture attached to a blog which says nothing, reveals nothing; to be a ghost in the machine of the world.