That word alone sends me rocking back and forth in a fetal position on the goddamn floor. I also am missing some hair from pulling it out in wasted moments of f.a.c.e.b.o.o.k. frustration.
I remember when new technology was fun. I remember when I thought I had excellent problem solving skills. A blog? Yes! sign me up. Flicker, add on codes, myspace, and games? Woohooo!!! Bring 'em on! I get off on finding new sights and figuring shit out. Until f.a.c.e.b.o.o.k. came along, and turned me into my damn mother.
Apparently, everyone has a FB account and raves about the demon seed. The Queen
I logged on and set up an account. I started adding friends, looking for long lost Johns, adding farmville, liking pages and posts, and thinking, well fuck, this isn't so bad.
Then the shit hit the goddamn fan. I started getting messages, bulletins, invitations and people trying to poke me. Things started dinging, pinging and ringing. I was given flair, surveys were popping up, questions were being asked, fake virtual drinks were being passed and IM's started popping up here, there and everywhere.
All. At. The. Same. Motherfucking. Time.
Pretty soon my head was buzzing, my blood pressure was through the goddamn roof and I was sending sunsets, flair and drinks without knowing exactly how the hell it was happening.
I started getting paranoid that some random axe murder would find me and poke my ass. And? What the fuck was flair anyway and why the fuck do I need or want it?
I sat there in a daze with my fucking eyes glazing over. As I neared an epileptic fit, I wondered what had happened to the mad multi-tasking skillz I was so proud of.
The pings, dings, and other bullshit just kept coming. Pretty soon I was crying, swilling gallons of tequila and pulling my goddamn hair out just trying to keep up.
After the 2nd bottle of Patron, I knew it was time log out. If not, I would drink myself into oblivion and quite possibly end up in desperate need of a fucking wig.
That fucking evil social network bastard gave me nightmares and caused me to suffer from post traumatic stress syndrome.
To this day, I need to take handful of Xanax and do a shit load of shooters before even talking about that boil on the ass of technology that is f.a.c.e.b.o.o.k.
That said, if you fuckers need me, leave a comment here, leave me a question over at out new collaborative Royal Family Blog, Dorks, Divas and Darlings, e-mail me, send a fucking carrier pigeon, or motherfucking smoke signals. Just don't look for me to be back on that goddamn fa.c.e.b.o.o.k.
I'm getting too old for this new technology shit.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go meet the Duke for the 4:00 early bird dinner special, buy some granny panties and then yell at some kids to get off my goddamn grass.