Hey, it’s me. Your Facebook friend from high school. Yeah, I kinda forgot we were friends on here, too. It’s been seven years since we’ve last interacted, when I asked you what time we needed to be at our graduation ceremony. Man, we used to have some times, didn’t we?
You had completely forgotten about my existence until earlier this morning, when I shared that video clip from the first episode of The Newsroom where Dumb from Dumb and Dumber talks about how millennials are unequivocally bad and baby boomers are good. You found my caption “SO TRUE. I CAN’T STAND MY GENERATION. NO RESPECT!” perplexing, as I was the person in your class who was expelled for posting crude photoshops of our algebra teacher naked on MySpace.
Once you remembered I existed, you decided to check up on my profile and see what I’d been up to in the last seven years. Big mistake. I haven’t moved out of our hometown, but I am throwing a fuckin’ rager in my mom’s garage. Some of the hottest girls from the high school’s class of 2017 will be there, as well as Natty Lights and a proudly displayed confederate flag. I’m NOT racist — just proud of my heritage. Rural Ohio has often been referred to as the South of the Midwest, I’m pretty sure.
Scrolling back to August of last year, you started to see pictures of me and a baby — a baby that I am unmistakably not posting pictures of anymore. You definitely got the impression that the baby is mine, but it’s unclear what happened here and you can’t quite shake the idea that there is something dark at play. Go ahead, try and figure it out. It’s inconclusive. You thought you might be able to get a better idea of the story by looking through my profile pictures, but if anything, it muddled the narrative more.
Bar none, the least surprising part of your journey through my Facebook history was the phase where I was seemingly trapped in a pyramid scheme. I invested in an introductory set of knives, and spent the next three weeks trying to convince everyone around me that I’d gotten incredibly rich from selling them. The reality was that I had not sold any knives, but had sold my entire list of contacts to the recruiter who first got me involved. My friends are pretty pissed that they keep getting calls to sell knives, but it was definitely worth it to finally get that foosball table for my mom’s garage.
You could have kept scrolling forever, lost in the fascination and horror that was my post-graduation life. So many questions still on your mind: Did I ever have a real job? Whose baby was that? Had I seen anymore than the first 10 minutes of The Newsroom? But alas, this was not a place for answers. This was a place to feel a little better about yourself and your decisions. It’s true — you will forget about me once again. That is, at least for another six or seven months, until I post a new picture with the aforementioned baby captioned “Little man is getting so big!” You’ll breathe a sigh of relief knowing that the baby is still alive, and once again fall down the rabbit hole that is my Facebook, desperately trying to figure out where he came from.