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My bathroom

Facebook is stalkerazi city

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I feel like I’ve hit a mental brick wall this week. Almost like I’m standing still while watching my world swarm around me — trying to pick out pieces of memorabilia from the dust and salvage them in order to form a readable Toilet Tales. By no means am I suggesting that any Toilet Tales has been “readable,” but at least in my tiny little brain things make sense as I string words onto Microsoft Word.

Alas, I got nuthin’ this week. Le sigh.

Yes, some people have pissed me off this past week. And yes, I’d like to punch them in the face. I’d love to vent and tell you all about their stupid mistakes, but here’s the problem: I’m almost positive they actually read my shit. I’d rather not create drama, so I’m choosing not to bring it up. Lame, I know. I suppose I’ll have to take my frustrations out somewhere else. Like the gym. Lord knows I could stand to sweat out about 50 pounds of anger.

Then, as I brainstormed Toilet Tales ideas inside my very own circa 1967 custom peach bathroom, I thought to myself, “Facebook!” My friend is going to hate me for saying this, but if City Arts can write about Facebook, so can I!

One of my very best friends writes for the glossy, local, monthly, and free magazine known as City Arts. Every month I eagerly pick it up and flip to the page where I’ve become accustomed to finding her editorial. I’d like to think I know her pretty well; so reading her column is like catching a glimpse inside a world I’ve become familiar with. This month I find no friendly editorial from my girl. Instead, this month I find a blurb about Facebook.

I was crushed. Literally crushed. And to replace something I love with some crap about Facebook? I didn’t even read it. I felt duped. So here you go — my crappy $.02 on Facebook:

Preface: My MySpace page is in existence purely for Tacoma. It’s where I keep tabs on all the local music, bars, restaurants, and events. My friends? Yeah, they’re on there. Some of them are, at least. I keep in touch with the friends I want to keep in touch with through other means besides MySpace. I think sending MySpace messages when you know me well enough to have my phone number is extremely “high school.” Hell, even Chris from The Red Hot’s not shy about calling me with the latest beer scoop.

And then there’s Facebook. I resisted this cyberworld for a looooooong time. I honestly don’t have time for another unnecessary distraction. And from what I’ve seen, Facebook is stalkerazi city. Something’s seriously wrong with a site that tells you every move your friends are making. EVERY MOVE. I was scared of anything I did being mis-interpreted or mis-read. Well, as you can see, I’ve clearly overcome that fear. Hell, I write a column involving public shitters for Christ’s sake.

I finally re-joined (I tried it a year ago and hated it) and now I gotta admit — I actually like it. It’s an “over 30” or dare I say a more “professional” crowd. I’m not saying I fit into anything carrying a label of “professional,” but it’s where things are less flamboyant and loud. Best part is — the old friends from Texas have been coming out of the woodwork! I had maybe two friends on MySpace from home, and on Facebook it’s at least 50. I’ve even dug out some old photos to scan and share with them. This is a distraction I don’t mind — keeping in touch with the people I grew up with. I love reading about their lives, seeing pictures of their families, and teasing them about old memories.

I ignore any requests for snowball fights or mobster wars or pissing matches. I think those are all stupid and bothersome. And I’ve only had to click “read less” about one person who was annoyingly posting self-serving dribble — but he lives here in Tacoma, so I’ll see him again soon enough. So, Facebook? Pretty cool. Catching up with old friends? Damn cool. Knowing what your ex boyfriend is doing every moment? Priceless.*

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go approve a Facebook friendship request from that guy I once knew named Mitch, who had a cat named Steve.

*I know. The whole “priceless” thing is so 2000. Forgive me, but it just felt right at the time.

LINK: Weekly Volcano on Facebook

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