One day my brother suggested I sign-up with Facebook. I’ve always resisted all these social websites, doing graphic design I’m already on the computer far more than I want to be. But my brother’s point was I could communicate with my daughter, who is out of state, more often. And reconnect with people I went to school with. I thought cool, more contact with my kid, but do I want to see people from my past?
My brother runs me through the sign-up, and asks me to find a picture for my profile, etc. In less than a week, I’ve had twenty people ask to be my “friend.” And various people started uploading pictures of me from different occasions over the last handful of years. So, I guess I’m a pretty popular dude.
The weird part of this site is when you log in you’re bombarded with everybody’s headlines (your “friends”) on your landing page. And I swear everybody is fat and sick. I page down, and here we are in our forties and everybody talks like they’re ninety. Hospital visits, colds, temperatures. It’s terrible.
The one interesting thing about Facebook is when someone comes on as your friend you can look at their pictures on their page. This one girl wrote me and asked to be my friend, she was in my homeroom back in high school, and I confirmed her and I was browsing through her photos and found a couple of recent pictures of a girl I “went with” in ninth grade. We split when I got into punk. Well, what a freaking let down, she looks like a Mack truck hit her, then was forced to live on the streets. I was about 150 pounds then, and now I hover around 200, otherwise I look pretty much the same, but some of these people just gave up.
What do I know? They could be online looking at my pictures and quoting my dad’s favorite saying: “He looks like barbequed bear shit.”
– Last One To Die, 2011