![]() ![]() My parents’ 50th wedding anniversary would save me. In despair, I turned my personal contact campaign to my only remaining outlet … For mailing the equivalent of a turd when a simple Hugs would do. For reminding people they were missing a loved one. Instead, I was called an asshole via Facebook Messenger.įor prolonging grief. How many I’m so sorry and I’m thinking of you and Hugs sound-bytes can a bereaved person read before they puke? I noted several grieving people in my newsfeed, mailed sincere condolences written in my own hand and awaited Friend of the Year profile stickers. Surely visits and meals and handwritten expressions of sympathy would win back my Facebook friends. ![]() Maybe by making it about me, I went about the whole Death to Facebook Assholery thing wrong … Death! What deserved a personal touch more than death? Nobody celebrated my birthday anywhere, because if it can’t happen on Facebook, it can’t happen. Requesting telephone calls, texts, snail-mail cards, e-mails or lunches – I really wanted those lunches – demoted me to the seventh sphincter of hell. I offered several alternatives to fête me, because friends need choices. In the interest of keeping my birthday secret, I pinned a profile post asking people to refrain from celebration-by-Facebook on my big day. For the rest of my goddamn life, I will live in a state of hyper-alert over my paltry assets, also known as uptight uber-assholery. Several years ago, Chinese hackers forced me to remove my birthday from social media when they stole my social security number. “But you never RSVP’d!” I screeched into the resounding click. “Who invites people to a party and doesn’t have booze, asshole? We’re going to the next event on our list.” I don’t have any food or booze or anything.” When my phone rang the day of the party, I was a bit surprised. I posted my Facebook event, invited everyone within range and started planning. I couldn’t wait to see my friends’ not-pixellated faces, smell their bad breath and get drunk in the same room. With real helium balloons we could suck on while hammered. What better way to initiate face-to-face contact than with a party, right? I decided to throw a party. I implemented my Death to Facebook Assholery plan and awaited a deluge of Best Friend Forever stickers all over my Facebook profile. I decided to reach out to my Facebook contacts and really be there. I threw my goddamn electronic device across the room and shrieked.Įnough impersonal balderdash. My friend’s aching need sizzled through my screen and burned a hole in my heart. Brokenhearted emoticons people offered and immediately forgot. Her cry for help was met with one-line expressions of sympathy. Until a friend shared an update about her struggle with depression. They emoticon birthdays and anniversaries of folks they’ve never met and sticker scan-and-post advice to virtual friends everywhere. They send hugs to the suffering and marvel over every new little asshole. Everybody knows a genuine Facebook asshole.įacebook assholes feign happiness over friends’ vacations. ![]()
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