I hate you. I hate you so much. Everything you post is stupid, and your fiance — whom you’ve referred to as "The Fiance" about 600 times — looks like a pre-weight-loss John Goodman with a bad hangover. He'll surely be dead before your tenth wedding anniversary; not that you two will make it that long — I’m certain you’ll be divorced by then. And you’ll have a horrible-looking child, of which you’ll post pictures several times a week doing "adorable" things, which will not be adorable, because little Madison's genetic pool is a wet fart in a sauna. And here we are: devoted Facebook friends for years.
Yesterday you posted that "you soar with the eagles and nothing can bring you down." The day before that you wrote a "foodie" post on the chicken salad you bought from the deli down the street ("too much dill"). Last week, you recapped "The Real Housewives," with very strong opinions on a person named Kyle. It seems every day you post photos of your dog, which I sort of get since it’s likely the only thing that will ever hump you with fondness. So I hate you.
But I will never, ever de-friend you. I need you.
I need you to tell my friends about. I need you so I can write long responses to your posts that I will inevitably erase. I need you so I can see how many likes you get, each one burning my insides with hot anger. I need you so that I can constantly be reminded why I should never like my own statuses. I need you to see the picture of you and your crew drinking champagne in the Hamptons with the caption "This is how we do! :)", so I know exactly how I don’t want to “do.”
When did Facebook transition from piece-of-ass stalking (" 'Spring Break 2009?' Yes, please!") to this? I know I’ll see this person on the street, give them a big hello and ask them how they are (but I’ll already know). We’ll walk away as we both say "we should really hang out more" - it will almost be like a real moment between real friends, except I’ll be going home later to check their status update and feel superior, even as I’m nekked on the couch and the cheese whiz from the "pizza" I made drips onto my chest. And then I’ll think about cheese whiz dripping onto nekked women’s chests. And then I’ll masturbate. But then I’ll go back to the Facebook thing.
And what I’m realizing more and more is that Facebook is turning all of us men into women, and all the women into Superwomen, and we’re all going to brunch together, drinking mimosas, and talking about how stupid Ann Marie is for dating that guy and how fat he is and then we’ll see Ann Marie on the street and tell her it’s so good to see her and ask her how she is and tell her she and her boyfriend are so cute together. And then we’ll all totally forget to take our birth control and then totally talk about how tight our pants are now that we finished that French toast and then we’ll all be like, "Oh God I need to go for a run." Hating people behind their backs and smiling like jackals to their face used to be the domain of women. Now this plight belongs to all of us. The gossip is unavoidable — it’s on our feed every day. It’s constantly piled on top of us and what are we to do but lift it off?
A couple weeks ago, a friend read me aloud a post from one of her Facebook friends:
"I don’t want to talk about it, but Andy and I broke up, so if you are really a friend of mine, please defriend him. It helps so I don’t have contact."
Then she rattled off post after post about how "things were getting better," and "today was a dark day," and "I’ll be OK." I couldn’t believe it. It was so transparently desperate for attention, so deliciously crazy. I was jealous. I wanted a piece of that. I want to watch that train wreck in real time. I want to hate her for being so pathetic. And, yes, I sort of wanted to have sex with her. I need to be her Facebook friend. I’m still waiting for the confirmation.
I can’t stop. Somebody help me.