I love Facebook.
I know a lot of people don’t. A lot of people freak out at the time-sucking nature of it or that they don’t want everyone to know their biz. It appeals phenomenally to my twisted inner voyeur. I love seeing photos of people looking gorgeous with their families. I love seeing the successes. But really?
I can be one snarky fucking bitch and Facebook is the ultimate in jerk-hiding-behind-a-keyboard equality.
I have found my high school best friend, who is a gorgeous, successful attorney. I have found a dear friend of our family, whose children encompass some of my very favorite childhood memories. My dear friend from Junior High is on Facebook. My mom is on Facebook. My sister, my brother, my cousins, my fiance.
Then I got a friend request from a dude I knew in high school. He told me, back then that he thought I was pretty. Then he proceeded to piss all over my locker. Therapy has taught me that this is the equivalent of his pulling my pigtails in the third grade. Common sense has taught me that this is the equivalent of him pissing all over my locker. I clicked over to his profile, noting that he has gone into the ministry.
Clearly his guilt over defiling my locker changed his entire life. HIS ENTIRE LIFE. I mean clearly, he was so bereft at the act of using my locker as a urinal, he turned to God to make it right. Well look, locker pisser; God may have forgiven you, but I don’t. Friend request, DENIED. It tickled me to no end to be so utterly passive aggressive. Therapy has taught me that this is my way of avoiding a conflict with someone who intimidated me. Common sense has taught me that Monsignor McPissalot can kiss my ass. God bless you.
He and I share many common “friends” one of whom asked me to spy on her boyfriend while we were in Spanish class. She was remarkably popular, incredibly beautiful and terminally stupid. I was not popular, not beautiful and not stupid. Her terrible idea became my mission in life, lest she make my day to day school going completely miserable. I watched her boyfriend like a hawk in our common classes, watching for the slightest hint of his infidelity. There were none. Like all of the teenage guys on campus, he was completely cock blinded to what an insecure psychopath she was. I summoned up my balls one day and decided to put a stop to my subterfuge.
I walked right up to him and said “Hey, your girlfriend has little minions all over campus watching your every move to make sure you don’t cheat. So, either you want to reassure her that you’re into her, or you need to tell her to get some meds. She’s being crazy.”
I watched his face change in light of this information. Wow, I thought, I am really making a difference here. I started to feel smug in my morality, I was saving him untold heartache. Yes, she was going to make me suffer for it, but wow, he really got it. I watched the rage, then fear, then sadness and finally confusion settle over his handsome face.
Then he said, “Wait, what’s a minion?”
His girlfriend socked me in the cheek in the girl’s locker room and flushed my gym shorts down the toilet that same afternoon. So, imagine my surprise when she found me on Facebook and sent me the following message:
I totally forgive you for trying to destroy my relationship with [redacted]. I know it’s because you were pathetic in high school, but it’s totally cool now. No worries. We’ve been married since 1993 and have 3 kids. [redacted] who is 16, [redacted] who is 13 and [redacted jr] who is 12.
Isn’t it funny how life works out? [redacted] and I send our love.
Emboldened by my laptop screen, the fortress of my keyboard and a healthy sense of outrage, I replied the following:
You’re married! To [redacted]! That’s awesome. Doing simple math, I’ve surmised by the ages of your children that your wedding was either outfitted by Vera Wang maternity, or you used your first born as your ring bearer. Either way, I am sure the affair was lovely, even with the visible presence of a shot gun.
Your love astounds us all and is something to which I, personally, aspire. Tell [redacted] to look up that word, you know, in a dictionary. I remember that big words make his head hurt and clearly that brain is something to be protected. I would hate to think of him taking a sharp blow and all of the sudden having had some sense knocked in.
Pathetic is all relative, I suppose. I realize I was quite nearly voted “Most Likely To Trip Over Herself While Watching A Bird”, but I am engaged to someone who was voted “Capitalist Most Likely To Own Your Ass” and we have managed to do fairly well. Without the use of outside private investigators in the form of teenage girls. Will the accomplishments never end?
I do hope you’ve managed to instill in your children a sense of self esteem, which prevents them from using people to make themselves feel better. I would hate to see your ugly cycle continue. But, I am certain you’ve done the necessary work to ensure that this won’t happen.
Hugs and smooches, cupcake. My totally stable, able to complete full sentences and has never suffered from premature ejaculation unlike someone’s husband I know, fiance and I send our best regards.
Actually, no we don’t.
Strange, she didn’t friend request me. Hmm. I was so hoping I’d be invited to her daughter’s sure to be upcoming baby shower.
I like Twitter as well. But, there is no chance that my mother will ever “accidentally” see me call someone a shitninja, or a douchejelly, because she doesn’t Twitter. I had to admit that even though I am 34 and I adore my mother, I do sometimes love to shock her. Facebook is such a delightful tool to use to this end.
Facebook is like a pixelated reality TV show. There is drama. Bad behavior. Terrible hair. Moments of poignancy. There is also me laughing hysterically at the friend request sent by the company mattress that I used to work with at the Not-t0-be-named retail establishment. The one who came up with thinly veiled ways of calling me fat. “Sturdy”, “Statuesque”, “Bigger” and my personal favorite “Zaftig”. Except, she pronounced it “Zatfig”. I asked her if that was Zaftig’s illiterate cousin. She stomped off on her little pencil legs, her flouncy skirt bouncing off behind her.
So, no, you twig legged, lemur-eyed nasally voiced little troll. I will not be your friend. Not on Facebook, not in life. I shall make fun of you, and your rat’s nest hair and your yellow fingernails and your teeth that are 5 times too big for your chinless face. I will politely hand you back your friend request with a polite suggestion that you may shove it up your ass. Except, I know that you are currently using that orifice to entertain three quarters of the straight men who work in the company. So, keep my suggestion for when you have a vacancy.
I will, however, look through all of your photos and marvel at the feat of physics which keeps your giant head balanced on your tiny body. Because that is what Facebook is for.