Thou shalt never bring Twitter into real life interactions. Don’t utter the words, “HASHTAG” when out in public or exclaim, “I’m so gonna tweet that!” when your friend says something funny.
Fast forward to the now and I still don’t know when the hell to throw down a LOL. I mean, when was the last time you typed “LOL” and were actually, physically laughing out loud? It’s rare that one laughs out loud during a typed conversation, but it seems that LOL is thrown around quite gratuitously.
Thou shalt never post pictures of thy food. I don’t care if you’re eating truffle macaroni and cheese with pork tenderloin and fries with garlic aioli. Chances are I’m starving and craving top ramen.
I’m not dating anyone–my book is my boyfriend right now. But I will say, if James Franco and his brother, Dave Franco, had a baby boy, and Ryan Gosling raised him on a farm, that would be my ideal man.
The gaming started in my school’s computer class. My private elementary school had a whole room full of thick, gray monitors: the kind that went blue with white robot text when they stopped working. The room was a narrow sliver off to the side of the library and we all sat in tiny chairs back to back, facing our screens.
Xanga started out as a forum for me to detail the various things I did each day, explain why they mattered, why I was SO AWESOME, and leave cute comments on various posts by my friends. In a very short amount of time Xanga began to be the place where I slung my heart up for display and showed everybody where it hurt.
When Facebook first became popular it was of social protocol to immediately add someone you had just met, anyone you had met. Saw them across the room at a high school party? Add them! Bumped into them that one super fun time at that really awesome place? Add them!
Smart phones ruin lives. Or perhaps more accurately, they ruin social lives. You want to know where I got my phone? Radio Shack. For ten bucks. Don’t you just love it? Oh, the irony!
My face has 43 muscles, 14 bones, one facial nerve, and about a square foot of skin. Two eyes, a nose, and a few moles. Occasional zits that come and go like unwanted houseguests. Styes on my eyelids if I don’t get enough sleep. Crows feet. Bugs Bunny buckteeth. Bushy brows. Prominent chin.
I go through phases where, in the foggy dreamlike state before sleep, I begin tapping out text messages over and over, detailed explanations for how I would like our imaginary relationship to proceed, messages that are painstakingly edited dozens of times before I finally delete them.