Get Outta My Face (book)

It’s Friday night, it’s been a shit of a week, so to celebrate I thought I would treat myself to a cup of tea, a normi, (the tablet not the singer although they both achieve the same result) and a good lie down. By 10.45 I was happily, blissfully, asleep. I had survived another week and was looking forward to a relaxed and pressure free weekend. What I didn’t realise was that while I slumbered, somewhere across the globe in hundreds of darkening rooms; a plot was being hatched by faceless, nameless “friends”.

I woke up the next day, groggy, my face forming a perfect relief map of the Blue Mountains, to discover I had 300 new friends! Now I don’t know about you but I have trouble keeping track of the five, okay three, friends I have IRL, (that’s young folk type for “in real life”). So the weight of 297 people demanding my attention hit me like the Liberal Party election loss.

Let’s be honest, I’m too old for Facebook and not nearly “gay” enough; I don’t straighten my hair and I wear my jeans around my waist. God knows why I joined in the first place - but I did. I’m thinking at 50 I’m more a “Get Outta My Face” book type of guy. I’m not a networker, social or otherwise, in fact I don’t really like people much at the best of times, just ask my partner. I went to Stonewall, once, only because I thought it was still the NAB, (National Bank of Australia). I did think it strange how funky the tellers were dressed as I handed over my deposit. (What is the deal with old banks turning into gay bars anyway?) I’ve never sent a Christmas or Birthday card in my life. Even a quick text to say “thanks for dinner” is beyond me but now I’m constantly sending hugs and kisses to these strange friends.

Do I really want to go to Ryan’s farewell drinks in Basingstoke on Trent, do I care that Sally has split up with Fiona but is now partnered for life with Cherie from Lucerne or Jose` is seeing Sweeney Todd in Queens? And just who is David Paris?

My time is being co-opted by these pals, demanding that I join their clubs, sending me nudges, pokes, winks, pictures and links to YouTube videos that are just NOT funny. Why do I have to write on someone’s Super Funwall, why do I have to take quizzes all to find out I am most like Joan Crawford and not Joan Fontaine? Why do I keep accepting the invite? It’s insidious, addictive, destructive and yet strangely compelling.

I can’t leave my bedroom, I’m forced to eat cold meals delivered by Christine Courier in front of my laptop, I chew coffee beans to keep myself awake, my back is developing a hump. I’m going mad answering every message that hits my intray. I don’t wash, I don’t shave, my hair has become home to a small nest of spiders and my fingernails are heading to Howard Hughes length. I have no me time, no down time, no quiet time.

I’ve never been so popular.

Please, please, please if my name pops up on your screen don’t feel compelled to add me, treat me the way you would if you saw me or any other MAG out. Ignore me! Gotta dash, Andrew’s not coping with Biomechanics, (I mean really, who is), and my two new “best friends forever” from Ghana want me, or at least my account number at Stonewall.