YOU AND I ARE NOW FRIENDS

Pre-Facebook:

When the person you are seeing meets your friends, you find out whether they will get along or not, and you respond accordingly. And that was that.

Post-Facebook:

When the person you are seeing meets your friends, not only do you find out whether they will get along or not, but a digital copy of the moment in question is recorded for the world to see.

SO IT'S COME TO THIS

I'm not really sure why I was chosen; my communication skills are, well--uh, they are lacking. I also have a tendency to use the wrong word or use words incorrectly. It probably comes from my desire to want to sound more intellectual-er than I actually am.

That's another reason, actually! I'm not the brightest bulb in the tool shed. I also mix metaphors up quite a bit, like a blender to food. Yeah, see, I thought that was a metaphor, not a simile. But I guess that's the way the cookie is eaten. By hungry people. On a blisteringly hot day. When they are starving. And have no food. Except for that cookie, that has yet to be eaten. By that hungry person. On that really hot day.

I also can't describe things good. Er, well. Sorry. Yeah, can I go now?

COMPLAINTS

Sometimes I think that the world is not enough. But then I realise that I'm not a secret agent and move on with my life.

YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG

A man, Man, stands alone on a street corner. Another man, let's call him Man B, approaches.

Man: Hey, man.

Man B: Hey. Let's just walk down to the bridge.

They walk.

Man B: So I was using a fake name, but I can give you my real name and my primary e-mail address for further trades.

Man: Cool.

Man B gives Man an empty cigarette pack.

Man: Uh, what's this?

Man B: It's your stuff, neatly packaged in some tinfoil.

Man: Wait, I thought I was selling you stuff.

Man B: No, I thought I was selling you stuff.

Man: Oh. Well, um...

Man gives back the cigarette pack. Both men stare at each other awkwardly.

Man B: Do you still, uh, want it?

Man: No. Do you want my stuff?

Man B: No.

They continue to look at each other awkwardly. Minutes pass.

Man: Are you sure?

Man B: Yup.

More awkward staring. More minutes pass. With out saying another word, they head in opposite directions.

JUST STOP IT

There was this guy...a guy who had stars in his pocket. No, not literal stars--do you know how hot and big those things are? Very hot! And very big. He had stars in his pocket--isn't that the saying? Shit, yeah, you're right. That's not a saying at all. Okay, let me start over. No, wait! Come back! I wasn't finished my story!

A WOMAN WALKS INTO A ROOM

So, uh, I know this isn't really common--or maybe it is, I'm not sure--but can I have an advance on my pay? I know I just started, but I'm positive you won't regret hiring me! I'm the best there is! Just ask the other girls; they can prove my strong track record. What? Why do I need an advance? Uh, well, I'm in some dire straits--financially, that is. And this would just kind of, well, make me feel a little at ease. Why do I have to wait for my pay? You hired me, you know I'm going to do a really, really, really good job. I just--you know what it is? I'm bad with money. There, I said it. But I'm learning! My pimp is trying to be understanding, but if I could just get an advance on my pay, I can pay him and then quickly service you! No, not quickly--you know what I meant. You're leaving? Shit. Not again.

I THINK THEREFORE I TWEET

I've unearthed (un-interneted?) a few ancient gems in the past couple of days: three Photobucket accounts and a really old blog.

With regards to the Photobucket accounts: my god, why the fuck didn't anyone tell me to stop taking photos of myself?

With regards to the old blog(which actually might have an 's'): actually, I'm not too sure where to start with this one. I've been reading old entries, and I know I thought I was writing really deep and meaningful shit, but now I just cringe after reading certain paragraphs. Why the fuck didn't anyone tell me to stop writing about myself? Was it because we were all doing the same thing, and we all actually gave a shit about each other's 'deep insight' to the proclaimed nuances of our so-called lives? Fuck, what a pretentious fucking thing to have. (Yes, I know, shut up.)

Anyways, it made feel nostalgic, and as horrified as I am to know that these things exist in a medium that at the best of times is a fucking wasteland, I'm still kind of glad these blogs exists. It's almost like a tracking device; I can track the trajectory of my so-called life, and pinpoint times when my biggest worry was over when I would see my then-boyfriend (as opposed to now, where 'then-boyfriend' has been replaced with the infinitely more scarier--and elusive--'next paycheck.'

Nostalgia is a tricky girl. It's constantly re-creating something that I once cherished, slowly morphing it into some unrealised idyllic time in my life. Naivety also has a large role to play, I would imagine. I was a pretty clueless, shit-eating young adult who thought I was better than most because...I don't even know why. Why the fuck did I think I was better than most people? Because I had a blog? Hah, what bullshit. I was just as clueless as everyone else, trying to carve my space out in this life, using the internet as a crutch to thinking everyone gave a damn.

Maybe that's what's wrong with this new generation. I would like to think my internet-self has matured, realising that 100% of the internet does /not/ give a shit about 99.9% of the things I do. And that has come from years of having shitty blogs. I am able to stand back and think, "wait, I should not share this because a) no one cares, b) it's inappropriate, c) everyone can see it." Unfortunately for a lot of people, they didn't really have that maturing stage or beta testing. They have been thrown into this hyperconnected world where (and this is where Orwell and co. got it wrong) everyone can spy on everyone else. And they want to tap into that because it might make them feel connected to something or someone--share some universal human events or some such.

We all have this incessant need to share things about ourselves, and it pretty much stems from--at least this is the case for me--wanting to feel part of something. A comment, a like, a repost--somewhere someone has recognised something I did, and it somehow validates my existence. Someone somewhere has experienced the same thing, and somehow a connection is forged. At least in the internet world in which my old-self used to relish. Everyone wants to feel part of something, and the internet, especially social media, has made that possible. To quote one of the first lines I have fallen in love with,

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.

If everyone has their eyes closed, no one is watching me, and I am dead to all. My old-self needed those eyes on me in order to prove to someone (and myself?) that I was not alone and was part of something. If no one comments or sees what I do on the internet, the word has dropped dead.

I think, therefore I blog, I tweet, I comment, I like, I am.

THING

I think you think that word means more than what it does.

WHAT IN BLAZES?

I'm not exactly sure how we got here...probably had something to do with all that alcohol we ingested. It's been fun, though--right? No? Oh. Well, my memory gets a little hazy as well. It's not all my fault! It takes two people to take off clothes, y'know. And to have the sex. Yeah, actually, it takes two people to have sex. Or more. It's usually more fun when it's more. But, yeah, one person is all that is really needed when you're in the undressing stage--you're right. But, yeah, this does not improve our predicament. Well, truth be told, I'm not really in a predicament. From what I remember, I had fun last night! You should have, too. I don't know why you're all up in arms over this. Okay, I get it, this is your first one-night stand. But so what?! Welcome to the first of what I hope is many. Oh. You don't want many? How come? Really? I don't think it's that slutty. Shiiit, I've quite honestly lost track of how many times I've woken up in a stranger's bed, or had a stranger wake up in my bed. I usually prefer the later; the walk of shame isn't all what it's cracked up to be. Oh. It's not cracked up to be anything? That's weird. But everyone knows what that walk is. And if everyone knows, that means everyone has done it. And if everyone has done it, it's, like, y'know, a universal human event or some shit. Oh. You didn't want to experience that event? Actually, just to back up for a second, I actually prefer waking up in a stranger's bed, 'cause then you could just sneak out in the morning and not deal with any unpleasant awkwardness...no, I was not referring to this pleasant exchange of pleasantries. Yes, I am having a good time! We should do breakfast! I love bacon. Man, do you have bacon? No? Oh. Well, I could go to the store and grab some! Really? I don't believe you. There has to be some convenient store around here. Wait--where is here, exactly? Wicked! That's only a few subway stops from where I live! That's awesome! We could do this again! Oh. You don't want to do this again? I don't understand why. I remember performing quite well last night, if I may say so myself. Just because you can't remember it doesn't mean it wasn't good! That was totally alcohol induced. Well, if you want--and I don't offer this often--I can have sex with you again right now so you can remember it. Oh. Really? Oh. Really?! Okay. I guess if that's what you want...I just thought we were getting along so well. And I got all excited when I found out we lived to so close together! Okay, okay, fine, I'll leave. I just need to collect my things.

Okay then. I'll see you around? No? Wait, you think we're never going to run in to each other on the street? We live so close! Oh. Okay. Yeah.