You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better. ~ Anne Lamott
Am back. On Facebook. Ugh. I feel like I just handed over every shred of decency I have to Mark Zuckerberg and he is doing unspeakable things to it. This better work better than it did last time girls!
Yes, I remember what I said about Facebook and all its co-conspirators last year. I still stand by that. I have even more arguments against it (planking, homicide due to wall posts and Farmville) now and, quite frankly speaking, cannot wait until the next thing comes along. Oh sit down Justin "I just bought MySpace" Timberlake. Best you will do is piss YouTube off. This business of you trying to be an actor and trying to relive your Social Network days makes you look silly, cheesy, and deficient. I digress...
Are we fighting yet, Amy?
As a precaution, I have created an account that is part my name, part not. So if you want to add me as a friend, and if I think you will not stalk my life and irritate the fuck out of me with your narcissistic wannabe bullshit are worthy, I will add you. You can email me privately for further information.
If I do not respond to your email or add request, I want you to give some really deep thought as to why I have not before you blast me about it and start calling me all the bitches under the sun in your news feed, status box, etc. I mean really really deep thought. And then choose my answer(s) from the following list that best apply to you (and they do):
a] I am not interested in your drama.
b] I am not interested in you stalking my life.
c] I really just tolerate you because I find myself in socialized situations where I am required to or I may loose my job.
d] You are a friendwhore, we are not now nor will we ever be friends, and I would not be caught dead on your friends list.
e] Your "join this club" invitations and all the other spam you posted on my wall last time I was on Facebook created so much spam I had to abandon a much loved email address. Fuck off with the invites, I can join myself.
f] We may be related but that does not mean I like you or would consider you a "friend".
g] You bore me with your feeble and pathetic attempts to look cool. If you really were as cool as you want me to think you are, if your life was as cool as you attempt to project onto me, you would understand that cool never ever tries. Cool just is.
(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on February 18, 2010.)
Look around; they’ve [consumers] taken great American literature and turned it into Twitter. – Kelly Cutrone
I don’t Foursquare, Twitter or Facebook.
I used to Facebook but got sick and tired of the narcissistic bullshit that permeates it. Here’s other reasons why I deleted my account (at least I think its deleted… you never know what that pack of bastards is up to or concealing):
-The idea that anything I post to Facebook instantly becomes Facebook’s property is frightening. They now have pictures of me and information on me that can be used against me on the Internet. And I have no recourse because I agreed to their terms of use, which they tend to change A LOT, and I agreed to follow their stupid rules… the ones I signed up with and the ones they have changed or added. Visa and MasterCard already own my soul, now that pile of dung that runs the show over there can use my second grade class picture against me. In my defense, it was the 70’s and my ringlets were an attempt to disguise a bad hair cut.
-Friendwhores. Get over yourselves. You wouldn’t walk across the street to take a piss on me, even if I had been on fire, in high school and now you are sending me private messages wondering if we can add each other and hang out when you come to the “big city”? For really? Let’s you and I get something straight, OK? I wanted to light your hair on fire in high school for being one of those five bitches who dragged me around the school, both levels, and then picked me up, carried me down a hall, and threw (yes threw) me at Darren Nimchuk’s feet when you found out I had a crush on him. I bet you forgot about that, huh. I didn’t. For two years, every time I saw him or one of his friends, I wanted to die. Literally. Like go Peden Hill and throw myself in front of an oncoming logging truck. You and your bitch friends took time out of your day for four years to mock me, set me up for rejection, reduce me in every way conceivable, and now you want to be friends and hang out? Fuck off is too good for you darling.
-Spam. I have had to abandon the email account associated with my Facebook account. It gets flooded with stupid requests to join inane Facebook groups and I have seen just about every email in existence that has anything to do with the sale of little blue pills, member enlargement, inheritance collection in Nigeria, and watches. What is it with watch spam? Is there really that big of a black market for Timex’s?
-Being stalked by THAT aunt. And the rest of my family. When the hell did anyone other than my cousins start Facebooking? I definitely knew it was time to get the hell out of dodge when THAT aunt tried to add me. The last thing I need is for her to be calling everyone I’m related to and telling them that my new status is “His and Her’s KY jelly rawked my weekend”. True story and no I will not be discussing it any further. Not here, not privately. I over-shared, as one tends to do on Facebook and Twitter and now my step granmonster knows I’m a KY fan.
-Being stalked by THAT co-worker. I don’t need her calling all the branches and every division and each department telling them I had a KY weekend either. She’s got a big mouth and if you think I over-shared, in the name of narcissism and competition, she will not be outdone and will retell the story every chance she gets, using some escapade involving her psycho husband. And the gym. And the dog. And tightwad Tuesdays. I stop listening when she explains what THAT is. I already know that her step daughter’s nipples point upwards and that her husband likes to stick his dick between her legs (THAT co-worker, not the step daughter... come on, they are born again Christians and so not into that) when she’s sleeping. Ya, she’s like that. Really really.
But the number one reason why I can’t stand these social networking services is that I just don’t care. I don’t care that you took a shit this morning and it felt like it was leaving you sideways. I don’t care that you just posted another set of 200 pictures trying to convince me that your weekend was better than mine. I don’t care that you have over 600 friends because I know it is simply not true.
Honey, allow me to be honest with you, you are lucky if you have 6 real friends.
True story.
