If Only Freddy Mercury Had Facebook

Facebook How Gross.


Fcebook, how gross.

I check it to see if my life has been updated within the last 12 hours. No new messages. No new friends. No new photos. Fuck.

I know I've been doing a lot of living these days. But I despair, for it does not seem to be reflected in the facebook. How are others, but mostly I, supposed to stay precise, updated, and informed of my existence? This is the twenty first century, our crude cave paintings are drunken photos taken on a space age phone leaked onto a website containing proof of my existence.

Proof that I am indeed alive. Even if I may sometimes believe otherwise.

Dismal. That is how I feel when I log in after entering the wrong password, and see that I have no new friends. And that none of my existing ones bothered to write to me or take photos of our shanigans. Aren't I here? Am I not alive?

I browse the selection of almost everyone I know whom owns a computer and is under 27. The people who are currently most important go first. Those who I hardly recall or know, never mind befriend, don't even get brushed upon. I don't have time for people I don't care about. Life connects, but the internet stays connected. I really don't want to see that fat girl I accepted as a friend go swimming in Maine, her latest picture album update entitled "Randoms Summer 08". Fuck, I don't even like seeing you in life.

How gross.

Old college buddies who I took LSD with and drank whiskey until the sun came up on early foggy mornings in the mountains are nurses or physcists. That beautiful blonde woman who lay with me naked as we discussed literature and smoked cigarettes in bed all night is married to a tool-ish looking kid in conneticut. The smartest guy I knew in high school who influenced my earliest choices in life works on a ranch in Montanna and enjoys opiate pills. The kid who helped me blow up a chinese classmate's mailbox just got retired from the US army since an IED blew through his left arm and thigh. My best friends have met some girls that I wasn't introduced to and an ex girlfiend has changed her profile picture to a cat. How gross.

There's not much info on myself. It's for the best. All members vainly realize that if they die right now, their epitaph will be heavily based on facebook. One must be cautious. Any biography will cite their interests or quotes from their profile. Pictures will describe the best moments they witnessed with a cellphone camera and any groups will display political views. And any friends will post their regrets, regards, and realizations about the recently deceased.

How gross.

Soon they'll be no reason to leave the comforting green glow of the computer screen. All relationships will be based upon facebook. Bars to partylines to chatrooms to social networking. Why spend money on coffee when we can chat right here on facebook. My sarcasm will go unnoticed, but in the mean time we can browse each other's pictures. You look so cute in this picture, lol rofl! Spare me.

Relationships jump at the twitch of a finger tip. I can start a new relationship or fuck up an old one. Touch a long awaited friend, or poke a cute suburban girl I have nothing in common with. Maybe I'll write poem to my sister. I just hope her kids don't friend request me, or I'll have to delete a bunch of my rad pictures.

It won't be long until a marketing company finds us all. A giant machine will compile all our data and calculate anything and everything under a flourescent light with a price tag and try to sell it to us. We'll get catalogs for things we never planned on buying, and phone calls from grassroot radical political groups from Denmark. Soon, the growth will go unchecked. Businesses will rely upon it. Schools will lean on it. Government will probe it. Unpleasant, unsightly, and obsolete, the members will emerge, just as they walk in front of mirrors, justifying their roll out of bed that morning. Money will be made, and graveyards created for those who have passed on and no longer tender their account. The accounts will be shut down, of course, and flowers for the dead will cost 1.00 to send.

How gross.


Regards, Esortnom