I‘m sick of this. Every time I log on to my Facebook page, I see the same boring crap over and over again, and I'm finally fed up with it. Every post seems to be the same mundane garbage about people's kids, who sneezed, who went to school for the first time, and who wiped their own butt. I've been wiping my own ass for nearly six years now, and I don't feel the need to broadcast it to the world.
To give a little context, I first joined Facebook to look at photos of people I lost touch with, in order to see who got fat and who went bald. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the bald and fat consisted of EVERYONE that I went to high school with. As I later discovered, the downside of social networking is that it led me to hate a good handful of people I had once genuinely cared for.
Don't get me wrong, Facebook has brought me back in touch with some people I wouldn't have seen again under other circumstances. Andrea, Kelly, and Joyce are all people I thought I would never regain a relationship with, but whom I now consider extremely close. Should they ever abuse the power of “the post,” I will freeze them out of my life like Iceman. Let that be a warning, ladies (on a variety of levels).
Your kids are only in every picture because they're attention whores who need some sort of photographic validation, and I refuse to participate. I don't have any children that I know of, and I obviously don't understand the fraternity of parenthood, but I would like to comment on a few Facebook posts pertaining to people's kids that have bothered me recently.
“I couldn't raise my boys without one special thing: Coffee. I'm so addicted. What am I going to do?”
I don't know. How about you drink some freaking coffee!?! A lot of people are addicted to things. For me, it's apparently not the ability to ignore posts of annoying pains-in-the-butt like you. You know who else likes coffee? JUST ABOUT EVERYONE, MORON! Why do you feel the need to put yourself on some sort of caffeine pedestal and force the world to aid in your fabricated time of need?
If your post read, “I'm so addicted to crystal. I don't know what I'm going to do!” I would respect the ability to share your issue, and would go out of my way to Google the nearest rehab center (well, probably not—you should have done that yourself since you're already spending so much time on the internet). Sorry, but being addicted to something legal that costs 14 cents a gallon doesn't seem like the world's biggest problem to me.
“Christie is going to Lindy's house for a sleepover. I hope they have a good time playing together!”
Screw Christie, screw Lindy, and screw you. Your kid's playdates don't register on the top 1,000 things that anyone other than you, Christie, and Lindy care about. Your own husband doesn't even give a crap where his daughter is, so long as he can watch the evening news without the sound of a SpongeBob toy ringing in his ear. If your goal was to pop out a kid and ship her off to Lindy's house, you should probably consider selling little Christie on the black market. A healthy, white child will yield quite a bit of money which you can use for a nice vacation away from the truth.
“Oh no, Gina has pneumonia!”
Nobody cares!!! When Gina inevitably gets gonorrhea, are you going to spread that information around the internet too? Pneumonia is contagious, so keep your precious little Gina as far the hell away from me as you can. Who knows what other diseases you've given to that snot-nosed brat.
“We put Blayne to bed at 8:00 and OMG, he asked if Mee-Maw could come to our house and read to him. Kids are so funny at this age. LOL.”
The only way I would find this amusing in any fashion is if Blayne was older than 26 and needed his 84-year-old “Mee-Maw” to read him a story in order for the moron to crash. Blayne is 4, apparently doesn't care for your rendition of Goodnight Moon, and is finally asking for a stand-in. You should be offended by the request instead of letting the world know that you can't successfully pull off a simple book-reading session by yourself.
“We have pics of Halloween. Jessica and Jason made their way into every shot!”
Your kids are only in every picture because they're attention whores who need some sort of photographic validation, and I refuse to participate. I'm not looking at your fucking Halloween photos unless you're dressed in something slutty, and have found a way to get your hands on a time machine to take you back to 1993 when you were relevant and hot.
“The kids are going to be so upset that they have to go to school today. I can't believe that it's Monday!!!”
Oh, it's Monday? You haven't held a job since you spread your legs and got successfully sperminated 9 years ago in the back parking lot of that dirty Taco Bell on Route 10. Monday, Sunday, Thursday…what's the difference? Every day of your life includes the same boring pile of nothingness. You wake up, do a few shots of tequila, make the kids their breakfast, and fall back to sleep for three hours.
You can't believe it's Monday? I can't believe you have a functional liver.
“I went to Lynn's house today. Lara is too cute for words.”
You know what I care about less than your kids? Kids of people I don't know, and even that's a horse race too close to call. This one is too easy. I'm moving on.
“The weather is so perfect today. Maybe we will all go to the park for some outdoors time.”
When I have “outdoors time” it usually involves some camouflage, a rifle, and a series of dead animals at my feet by the end of the day. I'm guessing yours is quite a bit different. Unless you're willing to display some photos of your kids hovering over a caribou carcass, I don't give a damn that you're going outside. It isn't like you jumped in an airplane and went somewhere exciting. You threw some jackets on your tiny fartknockers and walked out of your house. I suppose this intense effort requires you to tell all of your friends that you were capable of getting off your fat ass to do something productive for a change.
“Tracy asked me to write a note to her teacher saying she wants nap time to be longer. LOL”
You are in bed a solid 17 hours a day, so Tracy is probably gauging her sleep patterns on what she witnesses during your afternoon “wine tastings.” Maybe you should slip a few Prozacs in her lunch to get her ready for the clusternut lifestyle she'll need to cope with for the remainder of her short existence on this planet. If you occasionally made an effort with your husband to regain even the slightest shallow, pathetic relationship you once had, you could spend more time on your feet taking care of the ones you love instead of posting on Facebook and falling into wine-induced comas.
“Amelia is still sick today…she is going to have to miss her costume parade at school as well as her Halloween party…please continue to pray for her!”
No. There is only one thing I pray for, and trust me…you don't want to know what it is.
I suppose I should probably come to grips with the fact that this Facebook thing is never going to work out for me.