I’ve recently suffered the longest, most painfully drawn out breakup to date. I also have ants. I don’t know which is more annoying, and I can’t decide which one is making me drink more.
It’s forced me to ask a lot of hard questions. For example, what kind of changes will I make? Where did my personality move to? Who am I going to bang? And how do I get rid of these fucking ants?! All tough to answer. All solved with bleach and booze, and not in that order. Because that’s how normal people cope. In the face of these recent issues, I’m proud to conclude that I’m not one of those retards who posts about their deteriorating love life on Facebook. Or anything that openly paints a picture of my tormented life, for that matter. I guess I’m not a fucking weirdo with a peculiar need to disclose personal information with 500 of my closest online friends.
I mean, yeesh. The social codes for Facebook are changing in a really terrifying way.
Facebook has become the latest pointless platform for all sober and/or drunken morons to expose all of their personal confessions and complaints. My favorite example of this would be the thinly veiled posting of a noticeably relevant and depressing song. WHY? Post a song you like, fine. Don’t post some grievous torch song, musically pouring your heart out onto your fucking Facebook wall. The shit makes me squirm. People I respect have managed to completely alter my perception of them by exposing negative and deliberately intimate crap about their lives via Facebook status updates. Really, guys? Come on. I don’t want to know how disappointed you are with all of your friends. I don’t want to read a “Note” about your ex who beat the living shit out of you. I don’t want to see that your relationship “is complicated” or, you know, that you’re now officially divorced. Awkward! The whole point of Facebook is to make communication less complicated. Easier. Nope! Instead of remaining the daily hotspot for people’s lighthearted fruitless minutiae, which is what sold me on Facebook in the first place, it’s been reduced to a dumping ground for detailed emotional diarrhea. Hey, I have an idea. Call a fucking friend! Call your mom. Pay a stranger to listen to you and give you advice, MANIAC. Don’t publicly post about it on Facebook. It’s pathetic and weird. If I wanted to feel uncomfortable, I’d stare at my naked body in the mirror for more than five seconds or read old emails from my ex-boyfriends’ moms. I don’t appreciate the creepy convenience of recent status updates spilling the unfiltered melodrama of people I barely know or remember- even from the people I do know. If we’re friends and you’re super bummed, just send me a fucking text and we’ll have some beers. The less online acquaintances you have knowing about your sad fuck of a life, the less of a sad fuck you feel like. Hell, the less of a sad fuck you’ll be. Because,
A. Nobody cares.
B. Anyone who does care will pick up their fucking phone.
C. Take a step back, you fucking sap and recognize how childish and moronic you seem to everyone else who reads your pathetic drivel.
Yeah, I remember when I was in High School and I used to include the lyrics to love songs in my AIM “away status” so that Michael Wright would read them and hopefully fall in love with me. That worked out! No, it didn’t. Because it was way too indirect, and slightly creepy! Oh yeah, and I grew up.
Stop being a pussy. Be a human!