Morning Has Smoken

imageI don’t know what your favourite smells are to wake up to in the morning. Baking bread, perhaps? Frying bacon? Success? But one of my least favourite smells is the smell of smoke. Or, more specifically, smoke that I didn’t intend on encountering as it billowed its way into my room. What did I do last night in the kitchen?! Was my immediate thought. I scrabbled out of bed and really didn’t enjoy the way my hangover chose to kick in at this exact time. Yet upon entering the kitchen, I could see that everything was in order. Well. Messy order. It was then that I realised that the thin haze all around me was not from my flat, but from the flat of my neighbour the floor below (whom I will now loving refer to as The Downstairs Moron).

Living above this guy has been a trying time. I thought I had it a little rough with my neighbour previously who, in addition to being distractingly attractive, was also in the habit of rising early to pray loudly in Arabic directly below my bedroom. Not that I took issue with the prayer itself, it was more to do with the hours in which the need struck to commune with the divine. 6am, for example, is not my favourite hour for the call to prayer. However, this guy did make amazing food, let me take care of his kitten when he was away, and helped me practice my French. So in the long run, I liked him.

In direct contrast is Downstairs Moron. Yet another early riser, DM also loves to sing, both loudly and badly, at early hours on a weekend. I half think he’s warming up for church a few hours later. But what is most trying about this neighbour are the odours that emanate from his flat. The front door of which I have to go past every day. And yes, come to think of it, my brain realises, the smell of burnt food is one of the staple smells that come from The Downstairs Moron. The issue today however, is that for once, the smell has climbed the stairs and woken me from my sleep by activating the pre-historic DANGER section of my addled brain. I plod downstairs and hammer, politely, on the door. No answer. I hammer impolitely. Still no response. At this point I’m starting to not enjoy coughing by this guy’s door and so I go upstairs again and Google “How To Kick Down A Door”.

After ringing my landlord to leave a vaguely panicked voice-mail informing him that one of the events happening today would be the destruction of Flat 1’s front door, I decided to put to use my newly-Googled knowledge of Door Carnage By Kicking. This lasted all of four feeble footings until I decided that I was not, in fact, the new Jet Li. Ah, but now I get to do something even more exciting. I get to do what all little kids dream of doing for real at some point: dial 9-9-9.

I can tell you, it’s quite a rush.

Next thing I know I’m standing outside, squinting through my headache made worse by the fire engine’s siren, and being told by the speedy responders that it was just a pan that Downstairs Moron had left on when he went out for work. Whatever had been in the pan may only be determined by forensic science, and seeing how the place hadn’t actually burned to the ground, this was unlikely to happen.

And while I fared pretty well, had my smoke machines replaced, and went to get a breakfast that featured absurd quantities of peanut butter, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Flat 1’s poor little front door that now lay in splinters with a forlorn looking lock dangling by a solitary bent screw.

Next time I see The Downstairs Moron, I’m going to have words. I may even inform him of his new name.

Life Before Noon

garfieldIt was morning and we were stepping out of the gate, bright sun in our eyes. It had been a late night, the midnight showing of Avengers 2, and probably because we’d stuffed ourselves with sugar and I’d had six espressos to keep my eyes open, the night’s sleep hadn’t been what you could call amazingly refreshing. Yet it was morning, and work beckoned. As he squinted in the light he muttered:
“Eurgh, I hate morning people.”
I nodded. I mean, who actually *likes* morning people? Bright an early is never fun. Right? Why can’t they just grumble and roll along until lunchtime hits like the rest of us? I threw out my stock Oscar Wilde quote: “Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast” but all I got was a puzzled look in return. And then it hit me: he thought I was a morning person.

After recovering from such a spiteful accusation, I ran through the check-list in my head. While he was visibly malfunctioning, I was alive and smiling. He was still mostly comatose, I was practically bouncing – and I’d not had breakfast yet. I was looking at the day as a good one already, despite having only been awake for an hour (and asleep for only 4 and a half). Had I become a morning person? Was I really one of THEM?!

It’s true that now I’m living your average 9 to 5 weekday, I have to go to bed around midnight. I get cranky after 12 hits unless I’ve had lots of alcohol (at which point I’m probably just being my bitchy queen of a drunk self anyway). Friends try to get me to stay up past 1 and I just nope out and curl up with in my duvet. After all, sleep is fun! It’s like the third most fun thing to do by yourself! Why are there all these people who refuse to lie down and conk out before 5am on average nights?

Am I getting old? Is that just it? I know I’m halfway through my 20s and white hairs are just a thing now, I’m incredibly excited about knitwear, and Nigella Lawson is like my second mum, but I was unaware of when I slipped into the turgid swamp of white, middle-class adultism and left behind my “don’t talk to me before 11am” days.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve fully embraced my inner geek and have no issue becoming unduly excited over small things. I find letting myself overdose on happiness and joy rather agrees with me, so if you give me reasons to smile at 8 o’clock like, say, having seen Avengers 2 only hours previously, realising I still had a full huge bag of chocolate I didn’t get around to last night in my bag, or the fact that the sun was shining, then yeah – I’ll be jubilant in the AM.

Then again, perhaps I’m not a morning person. Maybe it’s just that some suffer more than others before noon and I won yet another genetic lottery that decrees that while morning is not my favourite time, it’s not the end of the world and my speech and motor functions are still intact. I still refuse to leave my bed before noon for anything other than a five alarm fire, the zombie apocalypse, or free food on a Saturday and Sunday however. And while my internal clock may wake me up before 9 on the weekend, I am most definitely going to lie here for three hours while I go on the internet. And I’m not one of those “let’s get up at 5 and go for a run” types. Those people are dangerous, stay away from them because they are probably the lizard people in disguise that David Ike has been warning us all about. And I will still give you a truckload of side eye and unspoken but clearly detectable (practically tangible) scorn to anyone who sings at me to wake me up. Unless it’s Julie Andrews of course. But then I’d have all sorts of other pressing questions to deal with.

What are you doing here? Am I dead? Is this heaven? Am I naked? Would you like some tea, Julie?

Why I Am An Optimist

Optimism-Breeds-OptimismMy previous month of no news was certainly interesting. I’d call it informative, but the truth is I’ve enjoyed being far less informed than usual. I have no idea what’s happening in Ukraine (there were rumbles of a nuclear accident?), no clue where the fight against ebola has progressed (though I’m guessing you don’t know either as no new white people have been infected), and I know diddly squat about UK politics for the month of November – I count this as no big loss.  It’s not as if I managed to stay news-sterile for 30 days though. I read the occasional headline on reddit, and tumblr came alive with the anti-racist police (or is that anti racist-police) riots and protests that have erupted across the USA, but generally I’m out of the loop. And I feel great.

Sure – go ahead – bury your head in the sand, Andy. Cut yourself off from all the crazy that isn’t happening to you and you’ll feel fine! Well, now that you mention it, that’s a pretty sound idea. What do I gain from reading about the murder of children, violent disease, extra taxes, paedophile MPs, civilian casualties, and the Islamic State? A burning anger? Over tweaked paranoia? A general sense of dread? All of the above and more, I’d imagine.

This all weirdly coincided with a tiny life event that made me realise what it is I really want. Or at least, one thing I truly value in people. I had to genuinely ask someone to be nice to me. He was so caught up in his (admittedly humorous and expertly crafted) put-down jokes – I believe the kidz call it “banter” – that he had forgotten that a human resided at the barrel end of his quips. No, I don’t think he’s a bad person. Yes, he was nice generally and had a nice face, but I think when you have to ask for someone to be nice then you’re on the tail end of whatever it is that’s happening.

We love negativity as a species. We LOVE it. Thrive on it, crave it, create it, and despise positivity. We then wonder why so many of us end up with brains hard-wired to think the worst and to ignore the happiness. As a guy who’s a sarcastic dick at heart, I want to just throw my two pence out there and reveal my life changing choice: I am going to try my best to be nice, to reject unkindness, and aim for joy.

I only have one life. And my one drive is to make sure I am happy.

And here I reveal that – hold onto your hats – we as humans can think and believe two opposing things at the same time. I can be positive and not be in denial that bad things happen.

Exhibit A: Tom Cruise is great and I love him. Tom Cruise is also awful and I never want to be near him. Exhibit B: Alcohol makes me feel great therefore I love it. Alcohol makes me feel awful, therefore I hate its effects. Exhibit C: Nobody cares about politics. Everybody cares about policies that affect them. Exhibit D: Nobody likes taxes. Everybody likes what they pay for. I could go on.

Yes it is possible to choose the positive over the negative and not ignore things. I mean hey, most of you choose the negative over the positive and you’d never accuse yourselves of the same short-sightedness. And why on earth is it so jarring to choose to err on the positive side of things? If the two sides are equal in importance (or at least in prevalence) then why is it that I seem to suddenly be going against the grain? Am I mad? Quite possibly. But I believe I have a duty to myself to stay in the healthiest frame of mind possible. Negativity does not help me in this.

And here’s where my writing runs into a conundrumatic* wall. To continue with my train of thought will be to delve into the negative, to berate, to decry, to be negative about negativity. How do I get my vague point across without becoming preachy? Without being just another whiny internet commentator mewling “Why can’t everyone just be nice?”. I think the answer is simply to inform you of my decision, and leave you to think what you want. My guess is that you dislike being told what to do as much as I do anyway.

Perhaps we’re all just different. Shocker, I know. But if I make one person feel a smidge better by not telling them why the thing they like shouldn’t really be liked, then I think this makes me happier than informing the plebeian masses on how right I am about everything. After all, you’re probably tired of hearing that from me by now.

So that’s it. I’ve been a negative person for too long. Perhaps this is my official conversion to optimism or something, and I have no intention of regressing. I now value kindness as the most valuable human trait, not excellent sarcasm. I’ll read about things that make me happy, over things that make me sad. And while I’ll keep a vague eye out over what’s going on – I want to know what happens with 2015s UK elections and 2016’s US elections (come on Elizabeth Warren!) – and I’m not going to avoid all news sources like I did, I think now I’ll just not be a slave to them.

Yes, negative cynicism can be funny. But positivity makes me happy. I know which side I’ll choose.

 

*Yes, that’s a new word. You may use it. 

Zen And The Art Of Mythological Maintenance

ZenPerhaps it’s my hesitant dabblings in yoga and that one time I managed to properly meditate*, or maybe it’s just I finally stopped caring about making sure everyone knows I’m right all the time, but I’ve slipped into an incredibly Zen way of life and thinking these days. Ok so I’m using Zen in the sense that I’m a placid lake of happy-go-luckiness who just rolls with the punches rather than a student of the 6th Century strain of Buddhism. But I’m sure you get the picture. Things just seem not to matter as much any more. Not that I’m becoming deadened to emotion or anything, I mean more that I’ve chosen not to care as much about things that I can’t change or things that get me nowhere in life.

Now I still geek out excessively. If you want to see me animated then just mention the upcoming Star Wars films in my presence. Words cannot hope to faithfully describe just how gosh-darned PUMPED I am for those things. Same with most geekery across the board if I’m honest. I enjoy being slightly manic when I feel like it. I still get worked up when the moment calls for it. Truth is though, I’ve realised that very few moments do call for it.

I guess it was a side-effect of being 18 and intelligent that I felt the need to hammer home just how correct I was and how wrong you all are at every available opportunity. It’s fun being right – I still believe that (ask any of my exes – I am an irritable correction freak) and I enjoy knowing stuff and churning out interesting facts to people – it’s just not a driving force of my life any more.

Some of you may remember my tempestuous departure from Christianity that went down a couple of years ago. I was an arrogant cynic who felt so intensely angry at so much about my previous life and I felt that I should be angry at someone but I had virtually no individuals to pin my butt-hurt intellect on. As a friend of mine commented “It’s just so hard because for twenty two years I’ve had this utterly amazing imaginary friend and now I have to come to terms that he’s just not there listening any more”.

I spent far too long reading as much as I could about how silly the very notion of God was. What fools! Hahahaha – look at those religious LOSERS! Tell you what, while it may be wrong to pick on a group of people for what they believe, it is undeniably fun. But yes, I was an insufferable prick.

And then came along the realisation that none of it actually mattered. Yes, I’d stopped believing in God, and yes, it was a big woop. Yet after the cosmic dust settles on the theological headstone I’d fashioned for good old Yahweh, I realised that nobody cared. Perhaps it came from my evangelistic days where I was used to going out and shoving my opinion in other people’s faces, or it could be that I just felt proud of my achievements in besting what I had believed to be the ultimate power in the universe, but just how people are awkward around the shouty men in the street who talk about how I’m going to Hell, people get annoyed at people who feel it their mission in life to pounce on any vague theological argument. People want to be able to think what they think without jarring flap-mouthed loons weighing in with their two-cents.

It’s funny actually. The times when I was most spoiling for a fight, I was sending out all the signals that I was singularly the worst person to engage in any sort of meaningful debate about higher things. Simply from an intellectual point of view I wanted to have a debate about atheism and Christianity – I still do in fact – but being a furry little ball of self-righteous rage, all my Christian friends exercised the wisdom of Solomon and stayed away, far far away. I honestly think that was the best call. Thank you all for not allowing me to embarrass myself. I’ve enough moronic moments in my life to deal with already without adding more.

But the worst part is that I never got to have a sensible conversation about things I truly wanted to talk about. I honestly don’t think that anyone of my Christian friends has any idea why I now don’t believe that God exists, and that’s weird considering the fact that I can rattle off the reasons and life events that led many of them to believing in God, and then sort more of them according to denomination and how many points of Calvinism they adhere to.

Perhaps I’d like that debate now. Over a drink somewhere – not on the internet. Internet arguments are without question the worst forum in which to try and talk to someone about anything serious. But then again, I’ve realised that it honestly doesn’t matter. This whole Zen thing has mellowed me out to the point where I know exactly what I believe and I’m comfortable with it. So comfortable in fact, I can listen to people talking about things that fly brazenly in the face of my godless sensibilities, and decide that none of it is worth a fight. You’re my friends and family and I don’t want to push any more of you away because of which books we like to read.

Zen truly is the way to live. Everything is better, everyone is lovely – if you just give them a chance, and the world seems brighter. Though that may just be the new light bulbs we bought for the kitchen – those things are brighter than the sun.

*It was out of this world. I felt like Yoda, Gandalf, and Professor X all rolled into one.

My Name Is Andy, And I’m An Addict

addictionFebruary is finally over. While for most of you it may have breezed by and you’re left in a bit of a whirl as the shortest month of the year popped its rather damp and windy head up and then disappeared, I  had my gaze firmly fixed on March 1st and it was a long time in coming. Who knew 28 days could be so tedious?

At the beginning of the month, I outlined my plan to detox for four weeks. No alcohol, no cigarettes, no red meat, remain hydrated, drink more tea, abstain from junk food, and exercise. I am now here, as a mere husk of a human being to warn you: do not, under any circumstances, do this for yourselves. It is shit.

It all starts off pretty easy. Don’t drink? Ah, I’ll save myself tons of money. Oh look! A wild salad appears! My lungs are singing with joy at the lack of tar, my GI tract is bubbling with health and yakult, and I feel like I’m somehow making a grand moral gesture to the world when while somehow still remaining a moral relativist. Then after a while, I realised just how much bacon featured in my diet. I can’t help myself to a handy BLT for lunch, and most of Subway’s better options are now verboten to me. I began to feel stressed and agitated from nicotine withdrawal. This was something I expected and actually only lasted a few days, but then the rest of the month just got stressy too. When I feel tightly wound on a normal day, I’ll pick up a bottle of wine on my way home and order in a pizza. I feel better in no time at all. These two options being barred to me, I was left twiddling my thumbs and wishing for March.

A work colleague heard about my puritanical fast and promptly plonked an entire bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label whisky on my desk. The tit. It sat there on my kitchen shelf, staring at me all month. Sheer torture I tell you. Yet the second midight struck, I poured myself a finger or four and had a mouthgasm of alcoholic paradise.

Did I feel any better for my lack of toxin imbibing? Nope. I felt that I was eternally missing out on life’s little joys. I just wanted to drink and smoke. And I didn’t even smoke that much in the first place! Sure, from a medical perspective I’m probably a touch fitter, my liver has regrown a bit, and my general inside health is definitely a little better. But I don’t feel any great effects from that.

Detoxing is awful. 0/10 would not recommend. This is mainly because it’s a scam. You know how you can detox normally? Just live like a normal person. Your body is hardwired to detoxify your system – that’s what liver and kidneys are for. Now perhaps you don’t want to smoke and that’s your choice – it will almost certainly mess me up later in life but hey, I’ve got to die of something and I choose alcohol poisoning and/or lung cancer.

Hello, my name is Andy and I’m addicted to eating, drinking, and smoking things that make me feel good. And let’s face it, we’re all hooked on the little joys of life. Yours may differ from mine but you love them just as much. The real problem came when I realised (about half an hour in) that this was entirely arbitrary and a mere fabrication of my brain. That’s the problem with rules – one day you realise that they’re made up and so you then know that you can just un-make them up. Haunting parallels to my previous religious journeys aside, it’s just not worth it. I was doing this “for science” and this experiment has shown me (negating the essentially negligible sample size and lack of control) that if I don’t drink then I get angsty and stressed.

Perhaps I’ll cut down later in life. Perhaps my doctor will order me to. Perhaps you’re Judgy McJudgerson the diet judge but you can just go sit in a corner and enjoy your lettuce. I’ll be having fun.

Quarter Life Crisis?

im-adult-nowThe difficulty rating for waking up in the morning can be expressed as the following equation:

Where omega is my overall mood from the previous day, p and e are the people and events that I will see in the coming day (if I have anything planned) a is the ABV of my blood upon waking up, w is the number of hours I have to work that day and m is the money in my bank. There is an x-factor that I’m beginning to think is controlled by the phases of the moon multiplied by our distance from Jupiter when it’s raining in the Amazon with a bit of cosine thrown in for good measure, but I think this rudimentary formula suits the purposes of this blog.

I’m in my twenties, my mid-twenties even. It’s only a couple more years before I qualify for being made into a mediocre sit-com and only a few more before parts of my body start falling off. I know I’m not supposed to have it all worked out yet, and this is great because I most emphatically do not have anything worked out.

Oh I’m fine – honestly! I have a cushy job, I live with one of my best friends in the middle of an amazing city. I waltz out of my front door to this amazing view (no seriously, that photo was taken from right outside my front door), I am disease free, I enjoy immense privileges just for being an educated white male in a western country, and most importantly: I’ve discovered what types of wine go with what. Some people spend years hopelessly chugging Merlot.

But everyone seems to have some sort of plan, a scheme, a conspicuously full diary filled out with life things and targets. And here’s me being perfectly happy just rolling down the hill of life and scrabbling at daisies on the way to the bottom. Then again, that’s not even true is it? Well, I’m sure some of you are very planned out and organised – you’re probably the type of people who frequently check unimportant things like the oil levels on their car, how much their radiators need bleeding (in July), and whether or not they remembered to mail their tax return. Sure, some of you are settled but I get the feeling that the majority of us are largely not. Or at least we plan to be settled in a few years time but we’re just going to throw our arms up and say “wheeeeeeeeeee” for now. I am, obviously, talking to my peers in their twenties here. If you’re fifty, have kids, a house, a car, and still haven’t worked out definitively whether or not you like olives, you may have problems.

Why do we need a plan though? Isn’t a plan something the Baby Boomers did? As a whiny, self-centred, ungrateful Millennial (as Time magazine would love to describe me) I can just meander through this and hope the government (read: mum and dad) pick up the pieces right? Well, sort of. I don’t actually care about plans and ambitions and whether or not my pension will be able to cover my impending alcohol problem in my eighties; at least, I don’t care yet – I might do in a bit; but what I do care about is what I really want to do.

I just don’t know.

And that’s lie number one. I do know. I want to be any of the following: Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader (only if the previous two are taken), commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions and loyal servant to the true Emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife, and I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next, Magneto, Wolverine, Indiana Jones…

Seeing as all of those are weirdly unattainable, I think I’d rather be a writer. Like  a big writer. A writer of big things and famous characters. Someone who makes people laugh while crying. You know the type. But the road to there is a slow a tortuous one which I intend to plod along while I continue also doing other life stuff. So what to do while I actually live? Well who the fuck cares as long as I’m happy right? Right? I guess that’s the question that keeps popping up like a rigged fairground gamestand. Do I have to squeeze my life to fit other people’s expectations? I think not. To fit other people’s needs, even if they encroach on my own? Probably, but I can be a selfish twonk who won’t like it. To placate others? No, but it’s sometimes best to I guess. What about just to be kind? I think I quite like being kind – it’s like a drug and I should probably up my dosage. Then again, with questions like that, I generally begin to whittle down at whatever life I’d mentally sculpted and the end result is different and I’m unsure how I feel about that if I’m honest. And oh, look, I’ve just discovered the ancient philosophical battle between the self and other.

I like to hope that everyone drives through this part of mental road blockage in their twenties but some of you are just so damn smooth that you look like you’ve got it made. What with your weddings and your baby bumps and pictures of the above. However the internet repeatedly tells me that everyone is just as befuddled as I am when it really comes down to it; and I think I truly believe that this blog sounds incredibly like something that goes through each of your heads from time to time. Perhaps I simply needed to type it out to feel better about myself. And perhaps it can make you feel like you’re not the only one who feels like they missed the class at school where everyone was told how to do stuff and things.

I hope that if I’m to have a quarter life crisis, this is it. I don’t have the money to go buy a Porsche.

Incredibly Related Video Of The Day That Also Covers All Of This But In A Much Better Way Than I Ever Could:

Facebook: A Love Story

heart-facebookWhen this most social of all the social networks came out and we all piled on the bandwagon, we adored Facebook. 2007-8 were Facebook’s golden years of unbridled and unabashed fanboy love. Here was the thing we’d all not known that we’d been waiting for – the answer to days of boredom and the perfect excuse to put off essays. Long live the internet!

As the years went on, our marriage to Facebook deteriorated and now many of us are barely holding on and keeping up a pretence at affection. We openly cheat on the side with Twitter and Tumblr (they really know know to make us feel good) and spend the rest of our time resenting all the quirky little things that made us fall in love in the first place. Some have even divorced Facebook and gone to live in happier parts of the internet, like BuzzFeed.

I frequently see blog posts (not dissimilar to many of my own I might add) in which the blogger outlines the many ways to be insufferable on Facebook (that article truly is quite insightful) and we’re constantly reminded just how annoying people whose online “friendship” (that word is always in quotes) that we accepted of our own volition can be on this free internet service that we are in no way obliged to continue using. It’s torture, really, it is! It’s getting to the point that if I saw a Facebook status that read “Grrrr! I’m so ANNOYED at cryptic Facebook statuses!” I honestly wouldn’t be able to tell whether or not it was intentionally ironic or if it was an actual thing that somebody wrote in all seriousness.

But let’s just slow this hate-mobile down a tad shall we? Why do we still use Facebook if it’s just so gosh-darn shite? Yes, it’s useful for inviting people to events that they will passive-agressively click “Maybe Attending” to. It’s sometimes fun to revel in just how good your life is compared to that of that person you always despised back in school. And sometimes people post funny things (I mean, where else on the internet can we find such delights…). No, the truth is that we use Facebook because we like it. If you’re on Facebook right now, you actually like it. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be on it or it will have been seven days since your last login (bless them Father, for they have sinned). I do have friends who hate Facebook, and you know how I know they hate Facebook? Because they’re not on it. They’ve bitten the bullet, cut the cord, eaten the cake, and all other manner of bizarre idioms. The rest of us who are still here actually and actively enjoy the experience, it’s just that we’ve been told that we don’t or that we shouldn’t.

The internet has latched onto the small nugget of discontent for Facebook and informed us that Actually, We All Hate Facebook Now And Nobody On There Is Really Your Friend Except Maybe Your Mum (But Even She’s More Interested In Farmville). By blowing the slight grating of certain aspects on the site (and there are many little things that irk us) we are now reliably informed that although we must keep on using it, we have to hate it at the same time. Cyber-Sadomasochism at its finest.

The truth is, I rarely get that annoyed on Facebook. Even when people keep their wedding photos as their profile pictures for over a year, change them and even go back to the photos (we get it, you’re blissfully married, has nothing else developed in your life?) When people post endlessly about sport (Was anybody truly outraged by Gareth Bale’s transfer amount? Literally everybody knew that the day would come where a man would be sold for that much money). On Sundays when people Jesus the place up (seriously, it’s as if you’ve all been given God homework – “Go home and post a random verse of a hymn and you’ll get an extra acre in heaven” or something). Not to mention when people brag endlessly, complain eternally, or just wont stop posting pictures of their fugly kids. Honestly, it’s only moderately annoying. I’m a big boy, I can get over it. In fact, if you ever do something that honestly annoys me, I’ll either tell you, hide you from my newsfeed (who said Facebook updates were useless?) or just unfriend you. It’s pretty simple.

And yes, the people I have on Facebook may not be as engaged with my life as the friends I see on a regular basis but there’s a reason I added them. I to whatever extent am interested in your life and would like to know that you’re not dead yet and are in fact having a nice time. No, I probably will never see you ever again but at least we can enjoy the planet together and bitch about it on this website.