INTERNET — Computers turned people from apes into apes that can view and interact with apes and their messages from anywhere in the world. People are now a multiplying, interconnected, knowledge-sharing cancer. We’re a computer virus in the planetary system. [pullquote]All social media is inherently evil, so how is myspace better than Facebook?[/pullquote]
But remember myspace? Sure, after everyone went to Facebook, myspace was a sad, broken scene. In fact, there was a period between 2008 and 2015 where I had been unable to create a profile, just to see the place again.
Billions of people and bots now use Facebook every day. People use it for their reasons, and the bots use it for their own reasons, plus people.
Cambridge Analytica behaves as both.
At one time, Facebook was simply a website for college students to get mad puss, so naturally we all went over to Marko Zuckerberg’s place and made a profile. Today there’s no telling what your 2004 facebook profile is worth, but it’s probably in the hands of every marketer, scammer, and blackhat attacker that ever wanted it.
We left our space when we left myspace, and went to Facebook, where everything and everyone looked more or less the same. Homogeneity therefore made our messages more important, and gave us incentive to set ourselves apart in the images and text displayed on our feeds.
It would be interesting to see myspace still in business. Because users had control of their own pages’ appearance, people used music and background pictures to set yourself apart. Bots rarely did this!
Russian bots on myspace now would have background images of farmland and hardworking good old boys, while God Bless the U.S.A. plays in the background. The bots’ memes to steer hatred away from Russia, only to splash it back out at each other would be all the more hilarious. Unfortunately, that would never happen because myspace never reached so deep into people’s lives as Facebook has done.
All social media is inherently evil, so how is myspace better than Facebook?
For starters, myspace did not sell your shit to Russia. Or if they did, I haven’t heard about it. I don’t care if they did! My opinion is special and you’re still reading it.
They also didn’t track you all over the web, using artificial intelligence to build personality profiles around you, which is objectively pretty cool but really, if we hadn’t been so slowly acclimated to that tracking shit, we might have asked ourselves, why are we tolerating this?
I would be motherfucking pissed if I found out a friend in my group was recording my conversations, building character profiles around me and my friends, connecting the dots between innocuous information we shared, and searching – like a stalker would do – for deeper meanings behind those connections and what it means for them being able to profit from that intimate access. That’s something a very sick person would do. You know this, but you guys keep coming over and hanging out at his house, anyway.
That’s weird, man. That’s fucked up.
Myspace was so much better than Facebook.
As far as sites go, Facebook is not even in my top 8. My favorite webpage is a 404 error.
I was 18 years old when I agreed to meet up with a fat girl I met on the Internet. I think I met her on myspace. Up until that point, I’d never even hung out with fat girls, because I didn’t have many fat friends.
She was from my hometown, just three hours away, and apparently she’d seen my band play live while I was still in high school. Also, she read my website and followed the controversy behind how it went down. So she claimed to know me and, after a few phone calls, was very interested in seeing me.
‘What could it hurt?’ I thought. I said okay. She seemed nice, and her voice was cute. Besides, why be down on someone just because she’s heavy, right?
She arrived in town shortly after I gave her the okay to come out and John – my roommate and best friend at the time – offered to help us out by meeting her at her car and driving us back to the dorm together.
We parked and walked casually down the sidewalk toward the street where she was parked. Then, he spotted her about a second before I did and asked, “That’s her, isn’t it?”
I fought the urge to grimace and forced myself to continue smiling. “Yep, that’s her,” I replied through gnashing teeth.
And on that fateful February evening, as the girl lumbered toward me, wearing flip-flops and a light hoodie, I braced myself for what would turn out to be twelve laborious hours of tolerance. It was then I knew nothing about this night could be romantic.
On the car ride home, she told us how difficult it was to navigate through Richmond, because of all the one-way streets. John and I stared silently forward, but I knew it was important to keep the mood light so I pulled out a pipe, and some marijuana.
“Oh muh Gawd!” the fat girl exclaimed. “I only done this like once before, so don’t y’all laugh at me.”
‘She didn’t sound this southern on the phone,’ I remember thinking. ‘Why is it coming out now?’ And that is how I learned that some people – when put in unfamiliar situations – will revert to a simpler version of themselves, as a sort of defense mechanism.
And it works, because I realized even though she can talk like a regular person when she wants to, she is a bumpkin at heart and no matter what happens, I’d better just go easy on her – as in, no intense debates, no really deep conversations. She’s already in the “big city” and I wouldn’t want to rattle her cages.
We all got stoned and talked about our favorite bands. LSD came up during the conversation, too.
For security reasons, my dormitory required visitors to be signed in, and in order to do that you have to fill out a few lines in their binder and leave your identification at the desk. This gave the security guards plenty of time to look us up and down and make assumptions.
As I handed ID cards over to the security guard, I detected an air of superiority from him. I could feel him judging me. But I was also very stoned – and as John and I had only very recently discovered LSD, I had become overtly aware of every little vibration – or so it would seem. Or maybe I was.
The three of us got up to the dorm and listened to Kyuss, smoked some more weed and discussed our ambitions. Mine include fame; John wants money; the RA wants to know what that smell is; and the girl was so stoned she didn’t know her name.
On that note, I wish I could remember her name so I don’t keep referring to her as ‘the girl.’ It was something like Lynn, and Laura Lynn makes bread, which is food, which fat people love to eat, so from now on I’ll call her ‘Lynn.’
John left to meet our friends – and not wanting to be seen in public with my adoring bumbling behemoth, I offered to stay back at the dorm and just hang out for a while. Quickly shutting down was my naive open-mindedness I had going into the night.
Finally alone, I was afraid her eyes might fall hungrily upon me and I would have to fight off the bear. But I’d clearly suffocated Lynn’s ego with weed, an effect I had not foreseen but was eternally grateful for. Recognizing the benefits of intoxication, I offered her a beer; however, it was not beer that she wanted. Nay. What does the beast require? She squealed out in ecstasy when I offered her a Little Debbie cake from behind the mini-fridge.
“Ooooh eeeee! AHHH! OH my GOD!” Lynn shrieked, tearing into the packaging. I felt almost as sorry for the little snack treat as I did for her.
She gorged herself on junk food and flopped onto my bed, grinding her filthy black feet into the pillow, where I lay my face at night. I watched in disgust as she wallowed around on my bed like a dry manatee. The situation was worrisome but I still found it hard to hate someone willing to go in on a ten-strip of acid with me even though she’d never tried it. For that I figured there must be something to her, some insightful spirit that needs nurturing, as we all do, and at the very least I could be friends with someone like that.
I had a paper due the following morning so I told her I needed to get to work, and she passed out quickly. Over the course of the next three or four hours, I finished her beer, wrote my paper and smoked more dank marijuana.
Then she woke up again, hungrier than a hell-hound and quite vocal about it.
I had no real food, and I was hungry too, so we decided to walk down to the 7-eleven. I knew Lynn’s visit to Richmond was the most walking she’d done up until this point in her teenage life. Her flip-flops made an aggravating “suck-pop!” noise as she followed behind me and we strutted boldly down a frigid, windy Main Street. I felt bad for her. I would’ve offered her my jacket but it was too small to fit her.
And then all at once, within 18 minutes and 45 seconds, my sympathy for this person disappeared rapidly.
We walked in the front door of the convenience store and I headed straight for the back of the line, which is very long the closer you wait until midnight. Suddenly my hairs stood on end as I heard her squealing like an injured beast behind me. “Sweet Jesus,” I said aloud, and turned to look at her.
“Oh my gawd!” she screamed. “These Cheetohs turn your mouth blue!”
I got hot in the face, turning bright red and I tried to pretend like I didn’t know her.
After ravaging the Cheetohs display, Lynn cut ahead of a guy standing in line with a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, to stand beside me. He politely said nothing but I could sense his annoyance. We awaited our turn to order Taquitos from the bar and, seeing as how I am a gentlemen and the bitch had already cut in line, I let the lady order first.
She demanded cream cheese Taquitos. He said they weren’t ready, but all the others were. She rose her voice and used my name, saying, “James! Can you believe they don’t have my favorite Taquitos? What kind of fucking 7-eleven is this? Arright, gimme the taco kind.” My asshole tightened, forming diamonds.
“Would you like three Taquitos for $3.33?” the man asked her.
She shook her head irritably. “Oh yeah, I want that. James, tell ‘im what you want sugar. Maybe they got what you like.” She bent over, placing one hand on the counter and the other on her equator, “‘Cause they sure as shit ain’t got what I like.” As if crippled by grief, she stared over her little bags of chemically-enhanced Cheetohs strewn across the counter.
I looked to my right, where at least ten people stood watching and waiting. The man holding PBR was now amused. I looked back at the clerk as I gripped the counter with both hands, afraid that I might lose control at any moment. Suddenly the idea of even ordering Taquitos was embarrassing. ‘What’s in this shit?’ I thought. ‘It’s probably giving me cancer. Diabetes. I am a disgusting human being. What the fuck.’ I mumbled my order to the clerk, swiped my credit card and almost left before he gave me my food.
On the way back, Lynn ignored a homeless person. He asked her for change and she pretended not to hear him.
“Hey wassup man? Your girl can’t talk?” He demanded an answer while approaching me with haste.
“I guess she didn’t hear you,” I said, and gave him a dollar.
“You could’ve said something to that guy,” I prodded.
“Yeah I know, but I never had bums ask me for money,” she explained. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“You just say ‘I don’t have it.'” I was nearly in disbelief at this point.
“But I do have money, silly!”
I said nothing.
I suffered through the excruciating pain of signing her in once again, making fat jokes in my head.
‘Will I need to sign her in as more than one guest? Maybe there’s a weight limit since I’m on the top floor.’
While writing her name in the book, I heard her wolf down at least one whole Taquito. By this point, I didn’t even care anymore. I just wanted the night to end.
As I typed away on my paper, Lynn sprawled out on the bed, dirty feet on my pillow once again, eating Cheetohs and yawning her mouth at me. From her open maw slid an indigo-blue tongue, flecked with orange pieces of Cheetoh.
“Blaeegh! Is my tongue blue?” she asked gleefully.
“Yeah, it’s like you ate dye.”
“Nuh-uh!” She ran into the bathroom to see for herself. “It is! Oh m’god, it’s so blue!”
Historical evidence that fat girls like gimmicky Cheetohs
We smoked some more marijuana, had a few beers and I blew her away with some very basic political discussion. I took this opportunity to transition into the social revolution of the 1960s, and then got her talking about acid.
I told her $20 would get her two hits of acid, and I’d just mail it to her after I bought the ten-strip. She said alright and eventually fell asleep.
I kept her money and took all the acid myself.
Apart from the occasional, “Where are my drugs or money?” emails, which came in for a few weeks and then stopped, I never saw or heard from Lynn, ever again.
Okay, there are some things in life you just can’t pass up. I almost clicked the Comment button. Seriously. And what do I have to lose? I should have just done it, but now it’s not funny anymore. Or maybe it was never funny. Or maybe it would just hurt that girl’s feelings because she is not who she used to be and I should not enforce a negative image upon her in front of everyone we’ve ever known personally, and my friends would say, “Come on, man, seriously?” and then I’d feel something called remorse.
That’s because I am a conscious, thinking man with the impulses of a terribly cruel bastard. Meh. What goes around comes around. I’ll get mine one day, but that day hasn’t come yet.
That being said, let’s talk a little shit about Facebook:
A lot’s changed since the last time I used it.
Why is it now considered stalking to look at someone’s profile?
Maybe I’m fucking interested. Am I a stalker now? In high school I dated this girl with a stalker and we didn’t have Facebook yet; in fact, myspace hadn’t even come out yet. What we did have was the telephone, and her back yard where we’d find him standing from time to time. That’s a stalker. This is a website and read this little factoid hot off the news feed: YOU CHOSE TO PUT YOUR INFORMATION ON IT.
I honestly don’t see what’s wrong with camping on a girl’s profile who you like and spamming F5 for hours at a time, or even all day. If that makes me a Facebook stalker, then I’m a Facebook stalker and my wrist hurts.
Why am I a “creeper” for hitting on girls with it?
Because if you do something as simple as using a communication device on a dumb girl, that word comes out. It’s not that sophisticated, honey. I didn’t go out of my way. Not for you. Maybe I can’t find what they call a good girl (which may or may not actually exist) at the bar because her face looks like a leather bag with a cigarette hanging out of it. Maybe I don’t find them at parties because *whore* Maybe I don’t find them where I work because they only hire men to do my job. Although, there is that one cute chick…but she’s a cocktease with a vendetta.
“WHORES AREN’T THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO GO TO PARTIES, MR. SMART ASS ELF WAX WRITER FOR THE INTERNET, MR. I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING, MR. I CAN’T GET LAID SO I GO ONLINE AND RAGE ABOUT IT.”
Point taken. Still, fuck that.
I operate Facebook like a vast net, trawling the murky unknown for a good conversation, intelligent insight, a funny joke, adding strangers in the hopes of discovering a classy broad who isn’t afraid to go out on a limb and meet a religious rapist-murderer zealot she talks to online. Because I looove to rape me some bitches. So what if I filter out all the ladies except those whose relationship status has just changed to “single”? That’s how you find the ripe ones!
brb jerking off to facebook
Why do people refuse to hang out with me and then have three-hour conversations with me across Facebook?
Maybe it’s because I’ve always been friends with lazy stoners. Or they just don’t like me, which pretty much invalidates our friendship status. -1 friend but there are still 257 left
“Wow asshole, you sure do have a lot of negative opinions about Facebook. Maybe you should stop using it?”
Maybe. But for now, I have developed a sort of perverted fondness for it – like Wal-Mart. Facebook bastardizes human interaction. Wal-Mart destroys local economies. I think the friendship economy is in a recession.
There is intrinsic value in the understanding and hatred of many things, and I encourage all of you to attack something or someone you hate today.
Now, I’m going out to throw some alcohol onto this roaring fire of rage and then I’ll come back to report its effects.
This has been brought to you by Lebal Drocer
“Facebook is garbage.”
Edit: I’m home again. I did not drink too much, as I took a look around at my surroundings and into my glass and decided that I’m not reaching my full potential sitting at the bar around people I hate more than myspace. My perspective has not changed, but it did occur to me after some conversation on the matter that Facebook is occasionally used for its intended purpose, like catching up with an old friend after many years. However, my opinion that it is a cesspool of immeasurable proportions will never change, but only reinforce itself as that website gets older and more used, like the girls on it.