In the past year I have consolidated most of my online activity onto Facebook. This is as surprising to me as it is to any Facebook naysayer reading this. I used to be one of you.
I don’t want to move there after the inevitable, “20 Ways You Know You’re A True New Myspacer” posts come out.
Is it possible to have friends who are purely for the Internet, and others you get to interact with out in actual society?
3. You’ve eaten plenty of cold meals because you couldn’t put down the iPhone until you captured the perfect shot of your plate.
So wouldn’t it be better for my brain (and maybe the authors) if I kept my stars to myself and composed some slow, patient, handwritten thoughts in a notebook? Or just tell my friends (as opposed to my “friends”) about the book?
Finally, a place where hipsters, struggling artists, and French kids can share their bleak outlook on life without angering the Facebook community.
There is going to come a moment when you look around and realize that you have received a request from an ultrasound with its own Facebook, and it is at this moment that you will lose all faith in your generation.
Kathy originally feared that she was unqualified to perform brain surgery on herself, but, after Googling it, she felt prepared and confident.
There is one element that all of my failed relationships share. Through all the many variations of womanhood that I have been familiar with, but a single thread carries through all of these dalliances. They involved a heavy amount of physical intimacy.
We live in exhilarating and confounding times. Mostly confounding. Here’s a concise glossary to help you make sense of it all without having to talk to anybody or subscribe to Wired magazine.