“I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”
I love Facebook, always have. It’s totally gagged up takeoff fun. I don’t know what I used to do before I signed on the dotted line. I think I used to call people on the phone to see how they were doing. It seems like a hundred years ago.
Life and everything must have been horrible before Facebook. It might have been fine, I guess, if you had a horse and buggy, but it’s more of a merry-go-round to know people, hang out with them on-line, and maybe meet them in real life. Whenever I’m away from Facebook for a few hours I feel out of touch.
You can literally put your thoughts about anything on it, especially funny things, and then your friends can comment on it. They can like it, too, which they always do. I do that whenever I see what they post. I’m always on Facebook. I may not be on it excessively, like some guys, but I check it all the time.
I’m a fast typist since I play video games. I’m way faster than most people. Much much faster. Almost everybody I know pecks. It only took me two weeks in a computer class to learn how to type without even looking. It just came to me, like a gift. Almost nobody is as fast as I am.
I posted Mexican Coca-Cola Chex Party Mix Breakfast of Maniacs and thirteen people liked it. They didn’t say anything about it. They just liked it. I post weird stuff, stuff that pops into my mind, like best night of my life, and eleven people liked it. That’s all I said on my post. BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE!
I post a butt load of funny stuff. I posted “poking ‘dem ladies at the mixer” hash tag #13 and fourteen people liked it.
There was a dance at St. Mel’s, the kind of dance they call a mixer, since we mix it up. It was only for freshmen and sophomores, at which you didn’t need a date, just come as you are. During the mixer, since I’m the dance master, three girls gave me their cell phone numbers. I posted that select information and got mucho likes.
I post a crap load of pictures of myself, too.
There’s one of me with my foot behind my head. My friends think it’s funny. “Old people do yoga all the time and they can’t do that,” said one of my buds. Another one is of me sitting on a couch making an odor face. Our English teacher told us he would give us extra credit if we posted something and got at least ten people to like it. More than definitely twenty people liked my odor face and Mr. Orwell had to give me extra credit. HE WASN’T HAPPY ABOUT IT! He shot me a sour look, but he’s from Bay Village, where it’s all pretend.
It’s totally great in that aspect. You can go to the home button and see all your friends, what they’ve posted, and their pictures. You can see all their weird stuff. Somebody posted “God is not mad at you.” I wish I had thought of that. I shared it all over. I got likes up the wazoo.
You can post all kinds of random things. Somebody put a noose around a dog’s neck, which was a puppy, and they put it on Facebook. It’s a real dead dog, although you don’t know if it’s really dead. It could be trumped up. They’re ugly freaks monsters, of course, meatheads who do that. They might go to jail, which you have to assume, which is where they belong.
Scar would rip into their faces if he knew.
I have a boat load of friends on Facebook, more than six hundred, but I’m starting to delete some of them. It seems like that many might be too many, but I know people from everywhere. I could have thousands. I know them in Lakewood, from St. Mel’s, St. Ignatius, and Mag’s, summer camp, running around, and everywhere else. I have a broad opportunity for knowing people.
People send me friend requests all the time. I haven’t accepted eighty-one people lately, because even though I know them, I basically don’t want to be their friend. It’s because they’re hounds, roundheads, nobody heads, or whatever. Not that it matters, at least not to me.
Some people I don’t even know poke me. “Why are you poking me?” They never have any reasons that make any sense, although sometimes they’re funny.
There’s Tommy, who goes to St. Mel’s, but I don’t really like him. I don’t like Eric, either. He’s kind of YECH! And there’s Carson, too, who used to go to St. Mel’s. He’s weird and queer. He’s not just gay. He’s actually gay, on top of being weird.
Some gays are all right. I have some of them who are my friends on Facebook and in real life. Skip was like that in middle school, although I don’t know what’s happened to him lately. He was actually gay, even though he’s a stud. He’s built like the Rock. I know he’s gay because he told me back in the day.
“I’m gay,” he said. “I like guys.” He lives in Lakewood somewhere anywhere I don’t know where. I didn’t accept his friend request. I don’t know why, but I backed away from it. I play it smart.
Mr. Rote talked about social media in our religion class one day. He was angry about it. He’s always mad about something. That’s how grown-ups are, always steamed up about something that doesn’t matter.
“When I was a kid my social network was called outside,” he said. “None of you are famous and your fifteen minutes of fame has been going on forever. I hope the next Facebook trend is shutting all of you the hell up.”
Nobody cared what he was all bent out of shape about. He is always raging about something. When he isn’t, he wants us to listen to him on his guitar. We all just hate him the most. How come he gets to swear in class?
You can never talk about St. Mel’s teachers on Facebook. If you do it’s the kiss of death. At St. Mel’s they will expel you on the spot for doing that.
One kid landed in a can of stinkbugs for posting the breaking news he was going to have a party at his house that weekend. He got called down to the Dean of Students even though he didn’t say anything bad, like promising that everyone could get wasted or smoke all the weed they could bring. He got in trouble for posting it and had to lose the party, at least that party.
Nobody knows who it is exactly at St. Mel’s that checks Facebook, but they do. Only the retards don’t know they do. I’m careful about it. I never swear, or anything close to that. I only do that in my messaging conversations. Those are between two people and they’re private. I NEVER show those to anybody.
I was talking to Chris, one of my summer camp friends, about a girl I liked.
“She’s my cousin. You better watch out.”
“You know I’m a pimp, Chris.”
“I feel it, player.”
“OK, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“I miss you and love you” is what I say to a lot of people on Facebook. I don’t actually love them, but they’re my friends. I don’t say it to everyone, just most people. Two of my friends liked it when I posted “I love you” with a smiley face.
“I love you like a fat kid loves cake,” one of them said.
“Thanks, Johnny, you make me blush.”
People can be my friends when they’re nice to me. That’s the baseline. It’s all about not being a jerk to other people. If you’re a girl and you’re pretty, that’s good, but nice is better. But if you’re ugly, I probably don’t want to talk to you. That’s just the way it is. It doesn’t matter how nice you are. Ugly is ugly and not good. If you become a jerk, like Sarah, who used to be my friend, then I won’t accept your friend request, no matter how hot you look.
They always know, of course, that I haven’t accepted them. So, in real life I try to stay away from them. There’s a guy named Ryan in my Spanish class who’s weird strange peculiar. I didn’t friend him and I have to see him every day. He sits right behind me. It’s awkward, but that’s LIFE!
He’s a JV football player, but not very good. He runs track, too and he’s good at sprinting. He never says anything to me about Facebook, thank God. There are some girls from summer camp who pester me, but they are either too young or too old. I don’t want to be friends with them, either.
I truly know a lot of my six hundred friends. I see some of them every day at school. Some of them I never see, but I talk to them on Facebook all the time. My friend Tony has a band. I like some of his songs. We post back-and-forth all the time. I posted a picture of an orange dresser filled with creampuffs next to a dog peeing and and a can of on the loose Cherry Pepsi.
“You’re such a freak and I like it,” he posted.
I added a winkie face.
“Being sick isn’t fun,” I posted when I had the flu. “It pretty much sucks.”
Eleven people liked it
“I was wondering where you were.”
“Yeah, I’m laying at home, unable to move.”
“Same here,” Lukas posted from his neighborhood of chinksters in Toronto. “Whenever I drink something, I puke it out five minutes later.”
My friend, Laurel, who might be my girlfriend soon if I play my cards right, posted a sad face.
“Aw, thanks, Laurel. What are you doing?”
“Ha, ha, I just woke up.”
“Are you watching the Super Bowl?”
“Yeah, 49ers all the way!”
“I hate you. The Ravens have class. If they don’t win, I’ll be peeved. But I’m glad one of us will be happy.”
“Cool, so what are you doing?”
“Watching the game. I’m glad you like football. It’s essential to understand it.”
After halftime I posted Madison, my other girlfriend who was my girlfriend at summer camp.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. How’s life?”
“Not bad, but not great. I miss you.”
“I know the feeling. What’s the matter?” she wrote and added a smiley face.
“I miss you, too. I hate school, but I don’t want to tell my dad because he pays thousands for me to go there. I just wish camp was forever.”
“I know,” she posted. “Come live with me.”
She lives in Collingwood, not far from our camp in Wasaga Beach.
“That would be awesome. I could move there, and we could actually see each other.”
“Yes, but no. Just move into my house and you could live with me. That would be fun.”
“Yeah, a little drama, but I think we could make it work.”
That’s about it, what we talked about, which wasn’t much. Most of my conversations on Facebook are just messing around. Others are funny and some are nobody’s business.
Everybody’s looking for a friend. That’s why everybody’s on Facebook. Maybe in the slums of India they’re not, but I’m positive about here and I know they are where I live. I don’t post a boat load of pictures, but, still, I post a boat load of them. People like them because they’re cool.
One of the coolest pictures is of me with no shirt on, although I do have a shirt on, except it’s wrapped around my head. I’m touching my nipples and my pants are sagging. When Call of Duty came out I posted a picture of me in a pink and black camouflage cowboy hat. I’m sticking my fingers and tongue out all weird.
One of my classics is from when I was eight years old. I made a music video at my grandmother’s house. I’m wearing blue chest hair, checked pants, and a sequined fishnet shirt that is cut low. My hair is all jelled up. What I was was CC Hammer. In the picture I’m pouting.
My best one is even better because it’s two pictures in one. I have a zombie shirt on that says “Have you seen my zombie?” In the second picture I’m lifting it up and there’s a zombie on the underside that makes it seem like my face. I’m making a sideways peace sign. I was trying to be like a gangster. In my other hand was my cell phone. The reason I had my phone was I was taking the pictures of myself in the mirror.
Grown-ups think Facebook is either cool or it’s stupid. Many of them think it’s a waste of time, even when they don’t know anything about it. My stepmom is special ops about it. I found out she spies on me by checking my pages.
“I’m all over you whether you like it or not,” she said.
I don‘t care what she says. She’s not as smart as she thinks she is. I might spread some breadcrumbs and make a fake Facebook page with my name on it
Even my Uncle Gray hates it, no matter that he has a million boomerangs he needs to sell. He should wise up, but he probably won’t. Grown-ups get stuck in the mud of time. That’s all there is to it.
“You have a profile picture, you sit around writing on walls, and guys you don’t know try to poke you. It’s like being a criminal,” said Uncle Gray at Christmas, when everybody comes over for brunch, stuff themselves, and sit around mumbling. When they finally don’t have anything else to say, and the football games are over, they all rush off and I have to clean up after them.
They say, “It’s a waste of time.”
I say, “You don’t know, you never use Facebook.”
But they’re weird, the old people, the grown-ups. They’re not necessarily all weird, but they’re ignorant when they say it’s stupid. It’s fun to connect with people. You hang out with your friends and make friends. What’s wrong with making friends?
Sarah Palin even quit her job as governor to be on Facebook more. She’s on it every day and she has a million friends. It broadens my perspective on people. I don’t want to know a ton of people, but at the same time I do. I’m not going to leave it unless something new catches the drift.
The Zuckerberg billionaires are freaking geniuses.
You have to be smart about it, though. You can click to friend me, but all you’ll see is my picture and all my friends. Everything else is blacked out until I accept you. The booksters and National Security can see everything, but I’m not planning on killing Obama, even though he’s a dope. I’m not going to post anything like that. You can’t be an idiot about it. You can’t just be an ignorant fool. I go smart that way.
The Facebook people are cool. I don’t think I would like them if I met them, but they created a great website. I have to give them a hand.
I get so many likes, no matter what I post. It’s like I can be whatever whoever I want to be. I can’t let my friends down. The ladies are all over me. What can I say? I love that.