It’s not you. It’s me.
I know Facebook says we have 117 mutual friends on Facebook, and you’re probably a really lovely person IRL, but this Facebook thing we had going on?
Well, it was fun for a while, but the time has come time for us to part ways.
Think of it as our Conscious Facebook Uncoupling.
We gave it a good shot, you and I. Or rather you and I and our 117 mutual friends. I liked the photos you posted of your kids on Halloween. I looked the other way when you shared a controversial article about affirmative action. Hell, I even pretended I didn’t see that you “liked” stuff posted by the NRA and the Duggars. And when you vaguebooked about “exciting news” and how you “wished you could say more,” I even commented with a “can’t wait to hear more!” even though my eyes rolled so hard in my head I think I strained my cornea.
But like my grandma always said, if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. So I kept on scrolling, and I kept on liking your humblebrag posts, and I kept on pretending you weren’t the twatwaffle that your Facebook behavior made you seem to be.
But here’s the thing — and I say this as politely as possible — I can’t even. I. Just. Cannot.
Bless your heart for using Facebook as your personal soapbox to extol the virtues of juicing and call out the mom who didn’t wash her hands when she left the Target bathroom (because, of course, you would have remembered to wash your hands while carrying a toddler in a football hold). Really, bless your heart.
Look, I’m a pretty tolerant person. I try to be polite, and I hate confrontation. But sometimes your Facebook posts make me want to stab a fork into my eyes. They make me hate all of humanity and fear for the future of our civilization. So traditional rules of etiquette and manners be damned. Since Emily Post didn’t have to deal with Facebook, her rules of civility can only go so far.
Life is short. I’ve only got so many fucks to give, and your Facebook bullshit cannot be one of them anymore. The crap going on in the world these days is bad enough as it is, I don’t want to spend a few minutes procrastinating on Facebook only to feel like I need a shower and a stiff drink. Fortunately, they have this handy little button called Unfriend (or Unfollow if I’m covertly trying to be polite about it), and with one little click I can avoid the need for a shower and an unwanted hangover.
Like I said, it’s not you; it’s me.
It could be that I’m allergic to your excessive and inappropriate use of #SoBlessed. Look, I get it. You have a fabulous life and you’re grateful. You love your life and want the world to know it. Good on you. Oprah would be proud. But your humblebrags make me break out in hives and throw up in my mouth a little bit. So in an effort to avoid anaphylactic shock, I will take a dose of #Unfriend when I see your #SoBlessed.
While we’re at it, you can praise the Lord seven ways to Sunday, but if you make Facebook your pulpit, you’ve got to go. A girl can only handle so much lapsed Catholic guilt. I don’t need your Facebook sermons to add to it.
It’s not you; it’s me.
Are you trying to sell me shit on Facebook even though we haven’t exchanged actual words since we graduated from high school? And even then the words were bitchy or you gossiped behind by back? Ummm…let me think about it…nope. I’m too much of an introvert to let you host a party at my house so that I can introduce all of my friends to the healing powers of essential oils or solve all of my First World problems with a Thirty-One bag the size of a toddler bed. Not to mention, ain’t nobody got time for that — especially this mama.
You know what else this mama doesn’t have time for? Sanctimommies. Even worse? The ones who start a post with “I don’t mean to judge but…” and then go on to judge the mom feeding her toddler Cheetos during a late-night run to Target. I just don’t have the patience for it anymore. But this is totally on me.
It’s not you; it’s me. Really.
Maybe I’m just hormonal and feel compelled to do a little online rage cleaning to rid myself of assholery, punknuggets, and shitgibbons — in which case let’s blame it on my angsty hormones. (Damn those nasty little buggers!)
And I suppose this should go without saying, but if you’re an asshole, douchebag, or someone who tells sexist, racist, or homophobic “jokes,” your Unfriend will come so hard and fast you might wonder if the door smacked you in the ass on your way out and left a few splinters. This time it really is you. Bye Felicia!
Whatever the reason for our conscious Facebook uncoupling, don’t take it personally. Like I said, it’s not you; it’s me.
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