A Facebook Diatribe

mark zuckerberg
mark zuckerberg
Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook. | Facebook, Billionaire,

The narcissistic side of Facebook

Bret Easton Ellis discusses how a lot of men's accomplishments can be measured by the amount of discrepancies they have with their fathers, which in the case of Mark Zuckerberg, must be insurmountable. Facebook has become the most ubiquitous entity amongst the social strains of "staying in touch" or "saving face". It has become a sexually assertive haven for socially awkward 'sex addicts' who virtually poke and prod their recipients with superfluous clicks of their perpetually glistening semen mouse. It has also become the widest, most extensive mirror of narcissism for many people to spread their spanking cheeks for. Emblazoned upon the home page of any Facebook frequenter, they'll find mundane tag lines with arbitrary hash signs, poorly employed parentheses, less than 3 figures (why not more than 3? or how about less than or equal to 3? When did algebra become some arcane, cryptic message for love?) and then there are the attention whores. The attention whores will invariably post their festive albums with pictures of them adorned with Nordstrom's latest why not wear white on your period ? It's summer... piece, whilst sucking face with another soggy faced post teen in a whirlwind of tequila shots and sodden shirts (all the while claiming that this is absurd behaviour is 'normal' and in no way alluding toward outward experimentation). After any sane person looks through enough of these pictures due to an inexplicable enticement and perhaps the glib hope that gossip may appear, there is one common stance that brings out the most feral instinct in me; when women (tanning totties, post-teenies, independent woman, I LOVE ALL MUSIC...(stipulation-asterisk) except country) lean to one side, with their hand on their hip. They usually stand so that the fat girls are perfectly centered, the crooked face is crouched down and finally, the off-balance, ostensibly drunken leaning body; creating what appears to be human bookends. It is in this instance that I have that pang of annihilation drip into my bloodstream as my mind buzzes around caustic quips of derogatory statements about these "fweinds". When someone has a set pose for a picture, they're usually a tad too in to themselves. You are not a decorous model just because your menopausal mother can afford to buy you chic clothing from Anthropology and lease a foreign car that you know nothing about, save for the whole filling the tank routine with muddy mudda's Shell card.

There is also something bothersome about these women who smile as if they've got an overdue hemorrhoid that needs to be removed before they excrete their deep fried olives and gouda filled tomatoes onto the floor. What the hell is wrong with you? It is a sort of strained smile, with askew eyebrows and pleading eyes. They often have their mouths clinched impregnably tight and may or may not employ the ol' bookend stance. It is these same women that (same goes for men-i'm no chauvinist please believe!) have those strained smiles whilst holding an obscenely white plate, fashioned to the shape of a perpendicular shape, with a piece of dust that has been removed from the retina of a salmon fish. But don't worry, that piece of dust has a piece of parsley on it and then some 'chef' haphazardly squirted green pesto with octopus suction cup juice and ferret saliva. Who the fuck really eats this shit? What is wrong with you people? Have you all gone fucking mad or what? You pay $30 for the salt off of a peanut with some obscure mustard squirted on it, then tip some celibate, pompous waiter for patronizing you with pointless inflections and brushing your gentials with those stupid man bibs and act like I'm a nut job for eating at McDonalds?! "do you know how they prepare their eggs?!" is the usual response, to which one must respond "I don't give a shit, it is reasonable, tastes good and doesn't feed my genitals a man bib". I honestly don't care how the food is made as long as it tastes good and is reasonable, so you can sod your soggy peanut with pomme de terre and duck faeces. I digressed to this degree because I already know that those are the smarmy comments that will emit from those veneer infested mouths. The type of people who lean to one side with their picture pose in every event and also post pictures of a solitary peanut on a grande plate, are the exact kind of people that love to sit on Facebook's title page and suffocate the text with their gob. They are the walking advertisements of superficiality and surfaced individuals with the extent of their ideals laying on a bookmarked page of "50 shades of grey", the label on a Jack Daniel's bottle and a proverb on their wrist from either testament (they're not sure) which reminds them to keep the faith. As far as the faith in people goes from Zuckerberg's malevolent creation of indulged narcissism, I've lost most, if not all of it. I don't need to post every itching thought or bullshit meal on Facebook (I can do that right here), and regarding the faith tattoo, I'd rather stick to George Michael's sermon about faith.

P.S. If you enjoyed my article, add me on Facebook.

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Updated Aug 12, 2017 12:08 PM EDT | More details


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