Um, listen Facebook, we need to talk.
I’m sorry I haven’t been the same lately. It’s just… I don’t really know how to say this, but, well here goes: It’s over.
No no, it’s not you, it’s me. No, stop crying, it’s not you. That’s right, it’s me. We spend way too much time together, that’s all. I need some time alone. I need some time to think.
Like when? Calm down, stop crying. I will tell you when, Facebook.
Last night instead of reading or writing or listening to music or even hanging out with friends, I was with you. I was looking at picture number 344 of Jenny Crowly’s 1,234 pictures. Actually, I looked at picture numbers 1 through number 456. What’s wrong with that, Facebook? The problem with that is I don’t even know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is.
What do you mean I don’t know who Jenny Crowly is? I mean I literally don’t know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is. Yes, I deduced that too. She is the friend of some girl I made out with my freshman year of college.
Yeah, I remember. Yeah, I liked the girl; she was a good kisser. Yeah, she was way too hot for me. Yes Facebook, I know you’ve helped me stalk girls all these years. Hmm? The girl I made out with? Her name is Jenny McCowen. She loves Fleetwood Mac and likes F. Scott Fitzgerald. Is she religious? Well, that’s not listed. And frankly, judging by her pictures, I wasn’t the first guy she sucked face with at Brandon Cooper’s house. Yes Facebook, you helped me figure out all this stuff. No, I didn’t actually have to talk to her at all. BUT THAT’S THE POINT. I don’t want to know any of this shit. I’m a changed man, I have a girlfriend now. I’m tired of looking at hot friends-of-friends I will never meet. Tired of it, Facebook.
No Facebook, it’s not that. What else? Well for starters, you’re status updates are starting to depress me. They’ve changed; you’ve changed. I’m starting to get older now, and I don’t like change. Instead of people posting, “Helen Thompson is on the boat, getting her drank on! Hit me up,” they’re now posting things like, “Helen Thompson is due in six months,” or “Scott Peterson got his book deal!” This is all well and good, Facebook, but it scares me. Here I am, still getting my drank on, and you have to remind me on a daily basis of how I’m wasting my life. What am I supposed to post, huh? “Brett Cihon is killing cockroaches in his dungeon-like apartment.” How would that look to others? What would the cool kids think?
Wait, what am I talking about? What cool kids? Sometimes Facebook, I think I’m the only one that ever looks at my profile. What do you mean I get messages? That was from my grandma, Facebook. My fucking grandma. You know the last event invite I got, Facebook? It was for a Christian charity event. Some rager that would have been. Ohh wait, I guess my Uncle did invite me to his work’s Christmas party….
Yes, I know I should start using you to network. But frankly, Facebook, I don’t want to network with you. In fact, I don’t want to network at all. Just to be one more kid suckling at the tit of some publishing firm where I’m applying for a, “Competetive Internship (i.e. No Pay). No Facebook, I will never network again. I’m just going to get my drank on.
Hey Facebook, don’t start to yell. OK, fine. I’m sorry I’m being mean, I’m just telling you how I feel. Yeah, I know we’ve had some good times. That time Linda Sampson from Psych 101 messaged me out of the blue. Yeah, we sat next to each other for weeks after that. Or the time someone tagged a picture of my balls and I used it as my profile picture. Great times.
But I’m sorry to tell you this: those times are gone. And they’re never coming back. We’ve just grown apart, that’s all.
Oh no Facebook, don’t be like this. No, I will not have one last romp through Jenny McCowen’s pictures. Those times are dead. Don’t worry, you still have plenty of other users.
Ok well, I think I should get going. Thanks for everything, Facebook. Stop crying, or else I’m going to start. I just… I just have to go. Bye bye, Facebook.
I’m sorry I haven’t been the same lately. It’s just… I don’t really know how to say this, but, well here goes: It’s over.
No no, it’s not you, it’s me. No, stop crying, it’s not you. That’s right, it’s me. We spend way too much time together, that’s all. I need some time alone. I need some time to think.
Like when? Calm down, stop crying. I will tell you when, Facebook.
Last night instead of reading or writing or listening to music or even hanging out with friends, I was with you. I was looking at picture number 344 of Jenny Crowly’s 1,234 pictures. Actually, I looked at picture numbers 1 through number 456. What’s wrong with that, Facebook? The problem with that is I don’t even know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is.
What do you mean I don’t know who Jenny Crowly is? I mean I literally don’t know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is. Yes, I deduced that too. She is the friend of some girl I made out with my freshman year of college.
Yeah, I remember. Yeah, I liked the girl; she was a good kisser. Yeah, she was way too hot for me. Yes Facebook, I know you’ve helped me stalk girls all these years. Hmm? The girl I made out with? Her name is Jenny McCowen. She loves Fleetwood Mac and likes F. Scott Fitzgerald. Is she religious? Well, that’s not listed. And frankly, judging by her pictures, I wasn’t the first guy she sucked face with at Brandon Cooper’s house. Yes Facebook, you helped me figure out all this stuff. No, I didn’t actually have to talk to her at all. BUT THAT’S THE POINT. I don’t want to know any of this shit. I’m a changed man, I have a girlfriend now. I’m tired of looking at hot friends-of-friends I will never meet. Tired of it, Facebook.
No Facebook, it’s not that. What else? Well for starters, you’re status updates are starting to depress me. They’ve changed; you’ve changed. I’m starting to get older now, and I don’t like change. Instead of people posting, “Helen Thompson is on the boat, getting her drank on! Hit me up,” they’re now posting things like, “Helen Thompson is due in six months,” or “Scott Peterson got his book deal!” This is all well and good, Facebook, but it scares me. Here I am, still getting my drank on, and you have to remind me on a daily basis of how I’m wasting my life. What am I supposed to post, huh? “Brett Cihon is killing cockroaches in his dungeon-like apartment.” How would that look to others? What would the cool kids think?
Wait, what am I talking about? What cool kids? Sometimes Facebook, I think I’m the only one that ever looks at my profile. What do you mean I get messages? That was from my grandma, Facebook. My fucking grandma. You know the last event invite I got, Facebook? It was for a Christian charity event. Some rager that would have been. Ohh wait, I guess my Uncle did invite me to his work’s Christmas party….
Yes, I know I should start using you to network. But frankly, Facebook, I don’t want to network with you. In fact, I don’t want to network at all. Just to be one more kid suckling at the tit of some publishing firm where I’m applying for a, “Competetive Internship (i.e. No Pay). No Facebook, I will never network again. I’m just going to get my drank on.
Hey Facebook, don’t start to yell. OK, fine. I’m sorry I’m being mean, I’m just telling you how I feel. Yeah, I know we’ve had some good times. That time Linda Sampson from Psych 101 messaged me out of the blue. Yeah, we sat next to each other for weeks after that. Or the time someone tagged a picture of my balls and I used it as my profile picture. Great times.
But I’m sorry to tell you this: those times are gone. And they’re never coming back. We’ve just grown apart, that’s all.
Oh no Facebook, don’t be like this. No, I will not have one last romp through Jenny McCowen’s pictures. Those times are dead. Don’t worry, you still have plenty of other users.
Ok well, I think I should get going. Thanks for everything, Facebook. Stop crying, or else I’m going to start. I just… I just have to go. Bye bye, Facebook.
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