God, I fucking hate people who tell me I need to get on Facebook.
Yes, I know. Everybody’s apprehensive at first. Nobody really thinks they want to, until they sign up.
Then it’s as if some wonderful kind of treasure trove opens up and bestows all kinds of priceless gems at your feet. Oh, look, it’s Mark Fitch, the kid that wore tight jeans and flapped his legs, subtly masturbating in Ms. Swanson’s English Lit class! And look – it’s Christy Gerlick, the chick that got wasted and blew the pizza delivery guy at that keg party junior year of college! And hey, is that … is that CARTER FLEISCHBACH? It is! Hey, man, remember when you sold me that bag of bunk mushrooms? No? Well I don’t really, either! How the fuck you been, bro?
If I had wanted to talk to the interstate pile-up of human wreckage that is my past, I would’ve done so by now. I would’ve Googled them, or asked any one of the three people I still talk to from high school about what happened to what’s-his-face or if he’s still banging what’s-her-fuck. But none of that interests me as an adult with things to do, like look for a new job or watch my latest DVR’d episode of PTI.
I’ve been lured before. In college I was told to try Friendster, so I did. What the hell, I thought. It’s something to do. Then, literally months after I had signed up, this new thing called MySpace sprang up out of the ground. Now that was the hot new thing, and I was stuck with the ’82 Pinto of social networking sites. Great. To this day I still get emails from them, urging me to update my profile so the 74 other pathetic losers still gripping their Friendster accounts tight like a last breath can find me. Guess what? No thanks.
So then. MySpace. I had seen the oncoming pattern: sign up for X, hot-shit new thing Y comes out. Sign up for Y, cool-ass new thing Z comes out. Sign up for Z, gotta-have new cocksucking thing SUBMIT-OR-DIE Z.A is there, ready to pounce on and devour your soul. But, still, a friend had said the only way to see her pictures was to get a MySpace account. So I did. I haven’t looked at that thing in years. I’d just as soon remember my third day on Earth than the password to that creepshow.
So why Facebook? Why has it not been completely conquered yet? There’s those cute little update messages people can leave; well, guess what? I can do that shit on Gchat, or, God fucking forbid, Twitter (which I am also boycotting like Facebook). And those quizzes? Christ. Who gives a flying pussyrocket whether or not your friends know what you’d rather be doing on a sunny day, or which John Cusack movie best sums you up as a person? HANG OUT WITH SOMEONE IN REAL LIFE, OR PICK UP THE PHONE AND CALL THEM. Didn’t we use to do that? Now it’s “Friending” and “Pinging” – sounds more like a bad SyFy movie than anything.
Look, I blog. I instant message friends. I text, I email, I do all that shit. I’m a person of this age, of this time, and I use just about every technological advantage available to lead a somewhat normal life. But I never sat at the “cool” table in school, and I’ll be fucking damned if I’m going to clear away a seat at the digital version of it now.