Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Look Who Got Old and Fat!

The good thing about Facebook is you get to become a self-centered narcissistic ass who thinks every aspect of your dull existence is worth sharing with the world in the hopes of getting a reality show based on your life. Of course, that thought never occurred to me.


The other good thing about Facebook is that you can look through the photo albums of past flames and remark on their non-graceful aging and expanding waistlines. Of course, I would never do that.


A recent study showed that people who have more friends on Facebook have higher self-esteem, and many people base their self-worth on how many Facebook friends they have. Of course, I would never base my self-worth on the number of Facebook friends I have.

Reality check.

I use Facebook to promote my books and blog and to write bizarre posts about the crazy things – and people – I encounter as I lead my bizarre, everyday life. And, I base my self-esteem on how many people comment on my posts. I also like to post pictures of my landscaping attempts around my trailer. After all, I am the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park, so you must – absolutely must – see what I am doing to flame up my single-wide, whether you like it or not. Hint: click on the “Like” button.

Facebook uses me to see how long it takes an optimist can become a bitter old queen. According to the results of this experiment, it takes about three minutes for the conversion to be complete. Some would argue there is no conversion to complete.

A lot of us use social networking to catch up with – or more specifically – find old friends from our past, and this is where our parents had it a lot easier. There is something about losing touch with people that makes life so much better. But in our world of constant contact and updates on our everyday comings and goings, too much information is definitely contributing to our shorter lifespans. See, it has nothing to do with the economy or the national debt or lack of universal health care.

There is a reason God made the Earth so big: so we could move away and not look back. Did we learn nothing from Mrs. Lot? Salt causes hypertension, and so does looking up your old friends and lovers.

Take it from someone who is approaching fifty and still single; stop looking back!

Here is how our parents received an update on an old flame:

“Remember that redhead you dated in high school with the big tits?”

“Yes. How is she?”


See. No drama, no curiosity. Just the facts.

As an historical researcher, I cannot help but look up old friends to find out where they are, what they are doing, whom they have married and divorced, how many kids they have, and lately, who is now a grandparent. I still refuse to believe I am old enough to have contemporaries with grandchildren. They must be foster grandchildren or there is a typo in the photo captions.

In my research, this is what I have discovered.

The guy who told me he couldn’t see me anymore because he found Jesus and had become straight and was going to marry a woman married a woman, had a kid, moved to the northwest, divorced the woman, married a man, put on at least fifty pounds, and has not aged well.

The guy who told me he couldn’t see me anymore because he met someone else, moved to the Midwest with his new boyfriend, broke up with him, moved to the West Coast, is on his third boyfriend, put on at least fifty pounds, and has not aged well.

The guy who told me he couldn’t see me anymore because he was actually dating someone else at the same time, just celebrated a milestone anniversary, travelled the world, and bought a house with his Mister Man. And yes, he put on at least fifty pounds and has not aged well.

Actually, he is more buff than ever, but his unattractive face does look much older.

To me, none of them look happy. Oh sure, they are smiling in all their photographs, but I can see the pain and misery they are experiencing. I know unhappiness when I see it.

As Queen Elizabeth I said, “We have no need of the looking glass! The look on your face says enough.”

If you look me up, you will notice I have not put on a pound and have not aged a minute. Using a high school picture of me on the beach as my profile photo doesn’t hurt matters. However, it might be difficult to believe my dog, Daisy, is thirty-one now.

Surprisingly, with the exception of the ex-gay who became gay, finding the old nasty ass bastards didn’t bother me. The problem with Mr. Ex-Gay was over the years he would send letters to my family looking for me, and they would forward these strange letters where he professed his love of Jesus and how happy being straight was for him. Included in each letter was a picture of him running a marathon or doing some other physical activity shirtless. Talk about confusing. Now, he is a big old gay man living on a ranch with his flamer of a husband. I have never met his husband, but from the pictures, I can tell he is a flamer. The smile and head angle always give it away. However, he is still a homophobe and has a real problem with any outward appearance of gayness as one can observe from his Facebook rants.

A piece of advice. If you use a current profile picture, delete any photos of you on Facebook that are more than three years old. There is no reason for anyone to see how much you’ve aged. If you can see them; they can see you.

You could do what I do. In the car collector world, I am known as a twenty-footer. I do not allow close-ups. I have a contract like Lucille Ball’s in Here’s Lucy – no close ups and always use a filter.

Past lovers and friends aside, there is another aspect of Facebook that drives me crazy. I call it “The Invitation Was Lost in the Mail” album, and it appears every Monday morning.

There you are sitting at your desk, eating a muffin (that is as big as your ass) as quickly as possible before any of your officemates arrive. You are perfectly rested because other than running a few errands, you had no weekend plans and stayed home Saturday night eating an order of sesame chicken and a pint of Chunky Monkey while watching Keeping Up Appearances on PBS. You log onto Facebook, and what do you see? A friend of yours, and not just a Facebook friend, has posted pictures from a party he attended. Not only do you know the host, but also every other goddam nasty ass guest who was there.

How nice for him. How nice for everyone.

If it weren’t for Facebook, you would probably have a good Monday, but now, all you can think is “Why wasn’t I invited?” “Did I offend someone? Oh, that couldn’t be it. I offend everyone.” “What is wrong with me?” “Why am I not loved?”

Then, you sniff your armpits. No, everything smells all right there.

Now, if you had fewer Facebook friends, you would find fewer pictures of your friends attending parties, and you would have higher self-esteem. So you see that whole theory about the number of Facebook friends is bullshit.

I am convinced all those people holding red plastic cups and smiling while attending their fabulous parties aren’t really happy and are full of shit as well.

Bitter, party of one!

If you base your self-esteem on my fabulous life, get on my email list, follow me, become my friend!

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