(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.
