Facebook

Sometimes I feel like I'm surrounded by meat heads.  Considering that my primary social outlet is Facebook, I shouldn't be even a little surprised that I am assaulted daily by boneheadedness.  If I allowed myself to behave like a sociopath, I could completely avoid the bobbleheads, but I'd probably also chase away the few people who actually make it worthwhile to deal with the aggravation.

The other day, I added one of those worthwhile people to my friends list - someone whose blog I'd read and enjoyed that winter I had the pregnancy insomnia that had only allowed me an average of two hours of sleep a night.  I'm not one of those people who feels the pressing need to announce every dreary detail of my day through status updates, but I did foolishly mention my excitement over having added BC Woods. 

No, he's not wildly famous, and he's certainly no Robert Pattinson - but Robert Pattinson has done absolutely zip to make my life easier or more enjoyable, so fuck if I care about when the other people on my friends list post his photos or prattle on about him and his movies.  I don't care, but I also don't make a point of telling them that.

But mere minutes after posting my status update, one of those aforementioned bobbleheads actually had the temerity to reply with: "Who???"  Are you kidding me, lady?  Completely ignoring the fact that Google exists and is available free of charge to anyone capable of taking the time to reply to a Facebook status update - it is impossible to not be boggled insane by the rudeness of posting something like that when I'd just said that he was on my friends list now.  He happens to be a human and posseses the ability to read.  Granted, I could see where he wouldn't register in what passes for her brain, due to not being a pair of overpriced sunglasses, a fictional vampire, or a god-forsaken picture of herself, but for the love of all that makes any sense, if you don't care, don't care without bugging me about it.

As an aside, when I joked - through clenched fingers - about whether or not she had considered using Google, her reply was that she was on her cellphone.  Well, pin a rose on your nose, you're just too busy to live.  But not too busy to bother to ask, "Who???"

Well, I'll tell you who.  He's a guy who writes stories - and he could take just one of those stories, print it out on a piece of cheap copier paper, feed it through a shredder, place the paper ribbons into a bowl of excrement, mix it up and punch it carelessly into an intestinal casing, and that shit sausage would still have more value than the half dozen pointless status updates you fart out every single day on Facebook.  Okay?  That's who he is. 

Now can I get the fuck on with my day without any more goddamned retarded questions, please?