The ‘I’ve totally got an amazing boyfriend, love you snuffle bunny’ Update
There’s nothing more sickening than logging onto Facebook to be confronted by a vom-fest of love declarations. So your super buff army fiancé is coming home in 134 hours, 6 mins and 3 secs and you can’t wait to bump uglies again? Brilliant. Text him/e-mail him/smoke signal him (not sure which is the best way to contact someone on the battlefield, I won’t lie.) Just don’t tell the world. Not only is it online PDA, but also it reminds me that I’m still spiraling towards a life of Bridget Jones-dom. On the issue, please don’t put up that photo album of your intimate weekend away, it makes me feel awkward, and an accidental voyeur when I scroll through photos of your boyfriend lounging seductively on the hotel bed he so obviously ragged you rotten in. Thanks.
The ‘I’m going to update you on every detail of my life’ Update.
A girl I used to work with dominated my newsfeed until recently when I eradicated her from my life. No I didn’t have her bumped off silly (hit man was holidaying in Shagaluf), I merely blocked her! Simple! She had this incessant need to update her status every 5 mins - one evening I was informed at 5.48pm that ‘Cindy can’t decide what to have for dinner’. Obviously I was hooked, so luckily at 6.11pm she reported that ‘Cindy is making spag bol for dinner LOL’. LOL indeed. Hilarious. Exactly 88 mins later she informed the world that ‘Cindy doesn’t feel well and isn’t going to eat her dinner ’ For a start, how long does it take to make Spaghetti Bolognese? Anyway, with so many cool kids owning Blackberries and iPhones, we can look forward to more updates on every minute detail of their life like, ‘Tony is at Dad’s funeral’, ‘Jake is trapped on the loo with diarrhoea’, or ‘Jenny has just been in a car crash and is being cut out by fire-fighters from the smoking wreckage, but phwoar they’re fucking fit’.
The ‘I’m totally having an amazing time WAHEY!’ Update.
You’re on the life-changing gap year of a lifetime (read: getting wasted in New Zealand, and passing Chlamydia on to all the hotties and notties you meet on the ‘Kiwi Experience’ megabus.) So of course you want everyone to know about it – especially that girl you dumped via text just as you got on the plane. And frankly, seeing your ‘Lewis is chillin’ on the beach, full moon party later GET ON IT LADZ’ update makes me remember you’re in Thailand. So I click onto your page, and you know what? I look through all 50 of your photo albums and get upset that I’m here, you’re there, it’s raining outside and my bottle of Boots Soltan Self-Tan won’t give me the glow you’ve got. Lewis, you bastard.
The ‘give me some fucking attention’ Update.
‘Katie is finkin go fuk yourselvz bitch cuz dat iznt how itz dun round ere’. And then ensues 55 comments from excited/concerned comrades finding out what the problem is, and seeing if they can lend a hand, a slap, or a gun-wielding boyfriend. Katie, Katie, Katie. If you’ve got beef, go take it elsewhere. Find the person who’s wronged you, take them somewhere for a little chat and perhaps a nice cuppa, then talk it out. Or if hot drinks might get used as weapons then simply meet them down a back alley after closing time, and rip their extensions out. Whatever. Just don’t bother my newsfeed with it. Oh, and Katie? Learn to spell.
The ‘oh crap morning after!’ Update.
So you totally had an amazing night last night and drank soooooooo much and can’t remember any of it? ‘Cos you’re the only person ever to have got drunk right? Wrong. We’ve all been there - we’re all cradling green tea, cowering under our duvets watching T4, trying to piece together exactly what happened in the wee hours. Next time, why not drink the whole bottle of Tesco Value Vodka then maybe, just maybe, you’ll collapse and choke on your own vomit. Then I’ll never have to read your updates ever again. P.S. did I really call that boy whose number I got off Facebook but have never actually spoken to? Fuck.