President Obama has been a disappointment so far. There, I said it. After all the buildup it still seems to be politics as usual in Washington. I want to see some Change! When Obama was elected it was like the second coming of Christ except after a few months Jesus was like, “Yeah, about that whole eternal salvation thing….well the economy blows right now so you’re gonna have to go talk to Buddha or something.” So yeah, Obama hasn’t lived up to the hype and as a result the pundits have been ruthless in their attacks on our fearless leader. In addition to these broadcasted rants, the media has also focused in on anti-Obama entities like the Association for the Partiers of Tea, nationalized death panel opponents, and GOP dreamboat Sarah Palin.
While all these groups highlight the mainstream backlash against the President, my favorite anti-Obama love child of the media has to be the Army Lieutenant Colonel who has refused to deploy because he wants proof that his Commander and Chief was in fact born in the United States. Terry Lakin, a high ranking Army doctor, is part of the ever-growing – and ever-lame ass – “Birther” movement. This group believes that President Obama’s Hawaiian birth certificate is false and that Obama was actually born on the desert planet of Tatooine, thus making him an ineligible and illegitimate President. Lakin wants to see the birth certificate, in person, before he agrees to obey his orders and deploy.
So let me get this straight: an Army doctor, rather a flight surgeon, Lieutenant Colonel type, with 18 years in the military, deployment experience as a doctor, does not want to deploy to provide his services to wounded Soldiers in Afghanistan because he has an issue with the President’s “supposed” birth certificate and wants proof. That’s right kids. An experienced doctor is withholding his expertise from the battlefield due to ideology. Lives potentially lay in the balance and Colonel Lakin feels that this “Birther” issue should take priority and be his focus. Imagine you, or better yet, someone you love, bleeding out from serious wounds and when the helicopter arrives to evacuate there is no doctor there because he thinks that Obama is a doo-doo head. Angry now?
There are even some individuals out there – utilizing the anonymity of the internet of course (who does that?) – who are praising this guy for taking a stand and forcing Obama to respond to the “Birther” issue. Really? In a time like now? By taking a stand he is denying wounded and dying Soldiers medical treatment. Let me say this one more time so I can emphasize my point here. Lakin – an experienced FLIGHT SURGEON – is denying wounded and dying Soldiers medical treatment. In Afghanistan. You know that place in Central Asia where our country has escalated an increasingly bloody war against Islamic extremists. Or were you too busy following the latest deets on the lavish life of Kate Gosselin?
Is there anything more selfish then withholding your life saving expertise because of an ideological stand. I would serve a fucking Muppet born in Zimbabwe with ties to the KGB and Ben Affleck if it meant I would provide a service that is vital to saving the lives of our brave military personnel fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. I would even swear a blood oath, I don’t care, because the service isn’t about me or my fucked up ideals. Whatever happened to an Army officer’s dedication to selfless service or a doctor’s dedication to treating patients in need? Love or hate Obama, the entire country should be appalled at this man’s selfishness. Some have the nerve to paint this guy as a hero? What a crock of shit.
And what really irks me here is the absence of mainstream outrage from all the pundits out there who claim to fully support the efforts of our military. Remember that Army officer, Lieutenant “No Ethos” Watada who refused to deploy arguing that then President Bush was waging an illegal war in Iraq and it was his Constitutional duty to not participate? The pundits raked him against the coals – justifiably so – for refusing to deploy. He, much like Lakin, hid behind ideology because in all actuality, he had no spine, no sense of duty or camaraderie, and no balls. It’s the same thing here – a piss poor excuse for an officer refusing to deploy due to “ideology” – minus the outrage, and the pissing and moaning Fox News is all too good at. Fair and balanced. Right….
Why won’t the mainstream media just come out, end the spin, and report that this man is a big pussy? Is it really that hard? Granted, the Army is going to court martial this embarrassment to the uniform but I need a little more pizzazz from the media outlets – sensationalist journalism is what you do best! I just need to know that there are others out there as enraged as I am so my blood pressure can go back to its normal, Taco Bell induced level. Anybody out there? Anybody?
Well in the absence of any real leadership I guess I’ll be the first one to take a major “WTF” stance against Lakin. Watch and learn corporate media outlets:
Lieutenant Colonel Terry Lakin, you are a pussy and a fucking coward.
I should get a Peabody for this shit….
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Jessica, I Hope Your Dog is Dead
As you all know I really don't care for my job, or working for that matter. So, as a means of adding some pizzazz to the doldrums of my average work day, I take it upon myself to take certain measures to insure my sanity and overall emotional well being. In fact, I am writing this as I currently "work" but I digress.
One of the things I enjoy doing most during the work day is checking up on the news. You see, I'm a firm believer that productivity should take a back seat to being knowledgeable on important world events. With the internet at my finger tips I can get constant updates to our ever changing world. You wouldn't want to be slaving away in your office when the breaking story comes out about an alien invasion or the second coming of Tupac Shakur would you? This being said, I make a point to thoroughly check the news at least twice a day.
So, today as I perused through the "Latest News" on CNN.com I came across a story that absolutely appalled me. CNN – “The Most Trusted Name In News” – reported that Jessica Simpson wrote, via her Twitter, that her dog was taken by a coyote and that a reward is being offered for anyone who finds it. This enthralling “story” went on to list several messages left by Simpson’s Twitter followers that offered prayers and condolences. My initial reaction was, “That’s fucking hilarious,” but my smile quickly faded as disgust over the story set in.
You see, I was not appalled because the dog fell victim to Darwin's theory of Survival of the Fittest - fuck that dog. My utter disgust arose from the fact that some jack ass over at CNN – a “journalist” if you will – decided that this anecdote out of a piss poor actress’s life was some how news worthy. There are a million things to report on – the health care debate, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the economy, Patrick Swayze and how he changed our lives after starring in Roadhouse – and the media establishment continues to poison our minds with pop culture bull shit as if it is somehow important and earth shattering news. Jessica Simpson’s dog!
I mean what the hell is this country coming to? The press used to be a respected institution, the bedrock of a free and democratic people, and now it’s used as a way to spread Junior High quality gossip to the masses. I understand the purpose and importance of entertainment, I get it, but does that shit really have to dilute the pages of the modern day press? Is American society that stupid? Do people just not give a shit about real news anymore? Jessica Simpson’s dog should not be something the press reports on. Period.
I’ll say it again. Fuck that dog. I hope half of it is resting in that coyote’s belly and the other half is scattered across a highway. And before you start calling me cruel, or inhumane, or a straight up asshole let’s look at the current situation we’re in. While Jessica tweets (Twitter’s word, not mine) to all her adoring fans that her precious pooch is missing, people all over the world are dying of terrible things like famine, the uncontrolled spread of disease, and war; the kidnapping, molestation, and murder of children continues to happen every year; our brave service members are getting killed in shit holes like Iraq and Afghanistan. All these things are part of our every day world and the press thinks this dog is important enough to make the news. What irks me even more is that with all this stuff going on, some dip shits out there have the nerve to send condolences and pray for a bimbo celebrity’s dog that had a higher standard of living than your average human being. Now, who’s inhumane? Who’s heartless?
It’s time to wake up to the world around you, boys and girls.
I’ll stand by my statement. Jessica Simpson, from the bottom of my heart, I hope your dog is dead.
One of the things I enjoy doing most during the work day is checking up on the news. You see, I'm a firm believer that productivity should take a back seat to being knowledgeable on important world events. With the internet at my finger tips I can get constant updates to our ever changing world. You wouldn't want to be slaving away in your office when the breaking story comes out about an alien invasion or the second coming of Tupac Shakur would you? This being said, I make a point to thoroughly check the news at least twice a day.
So, today as I perused through the "Latest News" on CNN.com I came across a story that absolutely appalled me. CNN – “The Most Trusted Name In News” – reported that Jessica Simpson wrote, via her Twitter, that her dog was taken by a coyote and that a reward is being offered for anyone who finds it. This enthralling “story” went on to list several messages left by Simpson’s Twitter followers that offered prayers and condolences. My initial reaction was, “That’s fucking hilarious,” but my smile quickly faded as disgust over the story set in.
You see, I was not appalled because the dog fell victim to Darwin's theory of Survival of the Fittest - fuck that dog. My utter disgust arose from the fact that some jack ass over at CNN – a “journalist” if you will – decided that this anecdote out of a piss poor actress’s life was some how news worthy. There are a million things to report on – the health care debate, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the economy, Patrick Swayze and how he changed our lives after starring in Roadhouse – and the media establishment continues to poison our minds with pop culture bull shit as if it is somehow important and earth shattering news. Jessica Simpson’s dog!
I mean what the hell is this country coming to? The press used to be a respected institution, the bedrock of a free and democratic people, and now it’s used as a way to spread Junior High quality gossip to the masses. I understand the purpose and importance of entertainment, I get it, but does that shit really have to dilute the pages of the modern day press? Is American society that stupid? Do people just not give a shit about real news anymore? Jessica Simpson’s dog should not be something the press reports on. Period.
I’ll say it again. Fuck that dog. I hope half of it is resting in that coyote’s belly and the other half is scattered across a highway. And before you start calling me cruel, or inhumane, or a straight up asshole let’s look at the current situation we’re in. While Jessica tweets (Twitter’s word, not mine) to all her adoring fans that her precious pooch is missing, people all over the world are dying of terrible things like famine, the uncontrolled spread of disease, and war; the kidnapping, molestation, and murder of children continues to happen every year; our brave service members are getting killed in shit holes like Iraq and Afghanistan. All these things are part of our every day world and the press thinks this dog is important enough to make the news. What irks me even more is that with all this stuff going on, some dip shits out there have the nerve to send condolences and pray for a bimbo celebrity’s dog that had a higher standard of living than your average human being. Now, who’s inhumane? Who’s heartless?
It’s time to wake up to the world around you, boys and girls.
I’ll stand by my statement. Jessica Simpson, from the bottom of my heart, I hope your dog is dead.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Inspiration? What Inspiration?
Inspiration, inspiration, where is my inspiration? I hate this. Here I am a wannabe aspiring writer and I can’t even get myself to compose some half assed piece that will move me from “talent less hack” to “mediocre yet witty hack.” I mean, there’s plenty of stuff out there that I want to write about – and by write I mean bitch in word form – but it seems every time I get home from the black hole known as my job I just want to sit my bony ass on the couch and watch some insightful and thought provoking television. You know, Daisy of Love, The Real Housewives of Orange County, Charm School, and How to Destroy Ones Soul Through the Television Medium: The Series. All amazing shows…….
Ugh! This is driving me nuts right now! I have enough thoughts and opinions running around in my head to write a book about but I can’t force myself to regurgitate them through my fingertips onto this here keyboard and out to my audience of 6 and a half people. So much material frolicking around and its wasting away within the confines of my skull. I think I need to watch Fox News’s Fox and Friends to get really heated and inspired but it’s not even on the TV right now! Fuck! Wait, hold on a second. Bingo!
Why does the entire cast of Fox and Friends look like creepy porcelain dolls just waiting to come to life at night so they can kill my favorite dog and black friend? Ah, shit! This won’t work either because I’m digressing – and worse than usual because I’m not even talking about myself to either a. make me sound awesome or b. describe an emotionally trying time in a comical manner to assist in the healing process. I’m straight up changing my thesis statement and that ain’t cool. A little digression is always hilarious but at this point I’m detracting from the flow and continuity of this here writing piece. I won’t stoop to the level of an 8th grader who can’t write for shit just to develop some rushed material for the masses. Who do I look like, George Lucas? I’ll leave those Fox and Friends assclowns for another piece and another day. Just you all wait.
Let’s see, inspiration, inspiration……Ah! Perhaps I’ll randomly punch my roommate in the face right now so I can create a story I can write about and ultimately embellish. He’s sitting on the couch texting like a little bitch at the moment which gives me even more of a reason to hit him. With his eyebrows all pursed and that stupid “I’m texting a girl right now” face. Wait, wait, he just sported the cheese dick “I got a cute message from this girl I like face.” Fuck hitting him in the face, I want to straight up dragon kick him in the throat so his face will go to the “Holy shit my roommate just jumped off the couch and booted me in the jugular” face. Stupid…..
But in all seriousness, I need to find my compositional mojo here because I don’t want to spend the rest of my adult days working. Seriously, I need to establish my reputation as an amazing and awe-inspiring writer and gain some book deal so I can make a bunch of money and then do what I enjoy doing the most – absolutely nothing. And before you call me selfish for not wanting to contribute to society or better the world or whatever cop out excuse you use to justify the job that makes you feel empty inside, let me add that I want to do absolutely nothing with my friends and family. Kind of like Entourage except I won’t be famous or as good looking, or pull as many chicks. I’ll probably still sport the same douchey haircut too unlike Vince with his free flowing locks and what have you. But I digress…..
And there it is. As I sit here and write away seemingly random tirades that come to mind, I think I’m getting to the root of my problem as to why I feel I have no inspiration to write. You see it has nothing to do with inspiration; rather, I don’t have the motivation or the desire to write. And this is all because I work all day and I don’t want to write when I come home because my dreams consist of working full time as a writer and who wants to do more work after you already got off work because then you would have two jobs when you don’t even need to have two because you’re financially comfortable right now and as a result you don’t feel like writing. You following me here? In case you aren’t let me break it down in algorithmic form because it’s all logical and stuff:
Faheem wants to have a job as a writer
Faheem hates working
Faheem hates writing.
Bam! It all makes sense now. Its tough being this brilliant, it really is, but sometimes you just have to use those naturally acquired smarts in order to get to the root of all your problems. I see writing as work and I hate working. I’m supposed to piss my free time away doing more work? Why work when you don’t have to?
I know what you’re thinking right now, “But writing can be a hobby for you, Faheem. LOL.” (I added the LOL to make you sound dumber despite whatever degree you may hold) My response to this is you don’t get paid for your hobbies. That’s what makes them hobbies. And I want to get paid to write so I can do nothing and have plenty of hobbies like writing. In addition, my hobbies include playing Rock Band and watching Daisy of Love and I’m sure as shit you can’t get paid for doing either. If I can get paid for those two things please let me know so I can cease doing both. There’s plenty more things out there I can do without getting paid – sleeping, staring at the wall, giving myself high fives – and I’ll take those up as hobbies any day.
Where’s my inspiration? It’s all there I suppose but I don’t want to equate writing to coming in on a Monday or a Tuesday or a Wednesday or a Thursday for that matter. Friday’s okay because I essentially zone out for the duration of the day thinking of my weekend plans anyway - doing nothing, with friends. I don’t want my writing to become part of the grind like everything else that’s work related but it seems like I’m doing that. Well perhaps I can say to hell with my aspirations of becoming a writer because it only turns a hobby I enjoy into work and it constricts my intellectual creativity. Maybe I’m just writing out my ass at this point because with this "lack of inspiration" I somehow just jammed out a fresh piece. I need some new topics…….
Ugh! This is driving me nuts right now! I have enough thoughts and opinions running around in my head to write a book about but I can’t force myself to regurgitate them through my fingertips onto this here keyboard and out to my audience of 6 and a half people. So much material frolicking around and its wasting away within the confines of my skull. I think I need to watch Fox News’s Fox and Friends to get really heated and inspired but it’s not even on the TV right now! Fuck! Wait, hold on a second. Bingo!
Why does the entire cast of Fox and Friends look like creepy porcelain dolls just waiting to come to life at night so they can kill my favorite dog and black friend? Ah, shit! This won’t work either because I’m digressing – and worse than usual because I’m not even talking about myself to either a. make me sound awesome or b. describe an emotionally trying time in a comical manner to assist in the healing process. I’m straight up changing my thesis statement and that ain’t cool. A little digression is always hilarious but at this point I’m detracting from the flow and continuity of this here writing piece. I won’t stoop to the level of an 8th grader who can’t write for shit just to develop some rushed material for the masses. Who do I look like, George Lucas? I’ll leave those Fox and Friends assclowns for another piece and another day. Just you all wait.
Let’s see, inspiration, inspiration……Ah! Perhaps I’ll randomly punch my roommate in the face right now so I can create a story I can write about and ultimately embellish. He’s sitting on the couch texting like a little bitch at the moment which gives me even more of a reason to hit him. With his eyebrows all pursed and that stupid “I’m texting a girl right now” face. Wait, wait, he just sported the cheese dick “I got a cute message from this girl I like face.” Fuck hitting him in the face, I want to straight up dragon kick him in the throat so his face will go to the “Holy shit my roommate just jumped off the couch and booted me in the jugular” face. Stupid…..
But in all seriousness, I need to find my compositional mojo here because I don’t want to spend the rest of my adult days working. Seriously, I need to establish my reputation as an amazing and awe-inspiring writer and gain some book deal so I can make a bunch of money and then do what I enjoy doing the most – absolutely nothing. And before you call me selfish for not wanting to contribute to society or better the world or whatever cop out excuse you use to justify the job that makes you feel empty inside, let me add that I want to do absolutely nothing with my friends and family. Kind of like Entourage except I won’t be famous or as good looking, or pull as many chicks. I’ll probably still sport the same douchey haircut too unlike Vince with his free flowing locks and what have you. But I digress…..
And there it is. As I sit here and write away seemingly random tirades that come to mind, I think I’m getting to the root of my problem as to why I feel I have no inspiration to write. You see it has nothing to do with inspiration; rather, I don’t have the motivation or the desire to write. And this is all because I work all day and I don’t want to write when I come home because my dreams consist of working full time as a writer and who wants to do more work after you already got off work because then you would have two jobs when you don’t even need to have two because you’re financially comfortable right now and as a result you don’t feel like writing. You following me here? In case you aren’t let me break it down in algorithmic form because it’s all logical and stuff:
Faheem wants to have a job as a writer
Faheem hates working
Faheem hates writing.
Bam! It all makes sense now. Its tough being this brilliant, it really is, but sometimes you just have to use those naturally acquired smarts in order to get to the root of all your problems. I see writing as work and I hate working. I’m supposed to piss my free time away doing more work? Why work when you don’t have to?
I know what you’re thinking right now, “But writing can be a hobby for you, Faheem. LOL.” (I added the LOL to make you sound dumber despite whatever degree you may hold) My response to this is you don’t get paid for your hobbies. That’s what makes them hobbies. And I want to get paid to write so I can do nothing and have plenty of hobbies like writing. In addition, my hobbies include playing Rock Band and watching Daisy of Love and I’m sure as shit you can’t get paid for doing either. If I can get paid for those two things please let me know so I can cease doing both. There’s plenty more things out there I can do without getting paid – sleeping, staring at the wall, giving myself high fives – and I’ll take those up as hobbies any day.
Where’s my inspiration? It’s all there I suppose but I don’t want to equate writing to coming in on a Monday or a Tuesday or a Wednesday or a Thursday for that matter. Friday’s okay because I essentially zone out for the duration of the day thinking of my weekend plans anyway - doing nothing, with friends. I don’t want my writing to become part of the grind like everything else that’s work related but it seems like I’m doing that. Well perhaps I can say to hell with my aspirations of becoming a writer because it only turns a hobby I enjoy into work and it constricts my intellectual creativity. Maybe I’m just writing out my ass at this point because with this "lack of inspiration" I somehow just jammed out a fresh piece. I need some new topics…….
Sunday, May 17, 2009
It's Not Your Attitude, It's the Music
The other day my best friend since the 6th Grade, Swarm and I were having a heart to heart – a manly discussion if you will – and he told me that I have this negative aura about myself that seems to bring others down around me. My initial reaction was to say, “Fuck you, man. How can you say such things when the terrible world we live in makes me who I am? You don’t see how the fact that people in general suck ass upsets my emotional stability just a tad bit? I realize there’s no point to this negative tirade of cynical anger, but what the fuck!?” The words almost came out of my mouth but I stopped only due to the fact that I schooled Swarm’s ass in basketball wearing a pair of snow boots during Sixth Grade Camp, and I didn’t want to lower his self-esteem for a second time.
Now, being a person who is always in pursuit of self improvement, I took a step back from the situation and thought long and hard about what Swarm said. After much reflection and meditation over a delicious Taco Bell Crunch Wrap, it occurred to me that I can be rather negative at times. Come to think of it, I do tend to have negative outlook about people and just about everything else (read blogs below). There’s also this tendency to wish to get into an all out brawl with those I loathe most only to see them get chopped up by an airplane propeller like on Indiana Jones. In the past I have been referred to as a Negative Nancy, a Debbie Downer, a Bitter Betty, and a Cynical Cindy. Never a Depressed Debra though……
So, after much thought and self loathing, I realized I have been living life with a pretty piss poor attitude. I mean why go through life looking at the glass as half empty? “Man the fuck up and fill that bitch up,” is what I should be telling myself. There’s really nothing to get down on about because let’s face it, I’m pretty much all around awesome with the exception of my lack of coordination which keeps me from playing most types of ball sports. I live in a house at a location that would make Garth Algar from Wayne’s World say, “This is a fully functional babe lair. Chicks are helpless against it’s powers.” Did I mention my awesomeness?
Well there I was all excited and inspired about becoming a Positive Polly and then it happened: I turned on the radio. I casually turned on the radio while driving home and once again I lost all faith in humanity. The cynicism I hoped to exorcise flowed through my veins and once again that damned glass was half empty. I even went back to viewing babies as selfish egomaniacs who are life’s ultimate Socialists. I mean seriously, all they do is lie around all day waiting for their hand-outs, various bail out plans of infantile proportions, while the rest of us hard working Americans slave away for these toddlers’ Marxist desires. If that right there isn’t redistribution of wealth in its purest and ugliest form than I don’t know what is. Take note Rush Limbaugh…..
Now, what songs have soured me over time you ask? Ha. Well seeing how the 90’s were the pinnacle of musical greatness I would blame my current attitude on a lot of the garbage that came out in the 2000s. But, considering I could write an entire novel about shitty music from the past nine years and how it destroyed my sense of hope and wonder, I’m just going to focus on the most recent songs that killed my hour and a half of positive thinking. Shall we?
Plain White T’s – “1, 2, 3, 4”
We all know Plain White T’s. You know, those slightly emo guys with the poppy twist who sing that Delilah song with the reference to New York City and being famous and what have you. Well, if you haven’t heard their newest single “1, 2, 3, 4” consider yourself hella blessed. That’s right. I busted out hella despite the fact that nobody says that anymore. That’s how fucking serious I am about letting you all know how this song raped and pillaged my soul’s village of Optimism like a horde of rampaging Vikings in search of valuable loot, buxom women, and the Northwest Passage.
To make you all understand how bad “1, 2, 3, 4” is, I’ll put it this way: it’s my favorite song next to “Small Child Screaming on Plane During the Duration of an 8 Hour Flight.” It makes Limp Bizkit’s 2000 single “Rollin” look like Beethoven inspired genius. I thought I’d never say anything good about Limp Bizkit but low and behold, you can find the good in anything when you are graced by something that is all out bad. Serious, the song is pure cheesy super lame assed shit. There is no redeeming quality about this song. No artistic substance or creative expression. Shit. A stanza of the ridiculously over the top sappy ass lyrics are below:
There’s only
ONE thing
Two do
Three words
Four you (mind you this “you” is drawn out to be yooouuuuuoooooowooooowoooooo”)
I love you
That’s the chorus to the song ladies and gentlemen and no it is not creative. It is sappy and annoying and I cringed just typing those lines. It looks like something you would find on one of those Disney themed cardboard Valentine’s Day cards you used to get in grade school. I fucking loved those – when I was 9 – but it doesn’t mean as an adult I want them in musical form while I drive home from a bad day at work.
Someone needs to check these guys for plagiarism because I’m pretty sure they ripped this song off from some pre-pubescent 7th grader who wrote it for his 8th grade girlfriend who upon receiving the song/poem broke up with the kid and called him a fag. The Plain White T’s found the song in the trash after the poor kid threw it away so he could go home to lick the emotional scars that will never heal because we never forget the first girl to rip our hearts out and beat it relentlessly with a crow bar covered in glass and bee stingers. Damn you, Megan! Damn you!!!!!
Wait, where was I again? Right. Cheese dick Plain White T’s song.
I know some of you out there are going to try and come to the rescue of this horrid excuse for music by coming out and saying something like, “Quit sipping on the Hatorade, Faheem. You’re just jealous because you never wrote about Delilah and they did and now they’re famous and married and living happily ever after with a white picket fence and a house mortgage they can’t afford.” Face the facts here. This song blows. Yet somehow it gets air time which in turn fuels my cynicism and as a result this negative energy cloud Hurricane Katrinas everything around me (too soon?). Its just impossible for me to emote positive energy wave lengths into the cosmos with the existence of this song. Sigh…….
Okay, moving on.
Flo Rida – “Right Round”
The “artist” behind this monstrosity of a song calls himself Flo Rida? Are you fucking serious? Was “The Continuously Smooth Passenger” already taken? Do you think he wanted to be called Flow Rider but there was already an 80’s hair band with the name? R we even teachin lil kidz to spel theez dayz? Okay I’m digressing. I’m sure Flo Rida is a guy of outstanding moral character, a thespian and a Shakespearean poet, who only uses the moniker to appeal to the urban market he could never really relate to.
Now, to his abortion of a track.
Not to try and sound all proper and puritanical – as you can tell by my use of colorful language I’m absolutely neither – but the blatant sexual reference in this “work of art” are just a little too much, which to me, shows a complete lack of artistic creativity. You want to be considered an artist don’t you, Flo Rida?
You spin my head right round, right round
When you go down, when you go down down
Come on, dude. What the hell happened to subtlety or innuendo for that matter? Musicians like Prince were the masters of this art form. I mean don’t get me wrong, Prince was, and is, an absolute pervert but he also displayed his mastery of innuendo in songs like his outstanding 1983 single “Little Red Corvette.” If you don’t know what “Little Red Corvette” means then ask your parents. Or maybe a pervert….
See the issue here is that before you know it, radio play will be reserved for uncreative and unoriginal music that goes into highly descriptive sexual detail because lets face it, its really easy to do. Here’s something my inner artist just came up with:
Give me a blow job
Because I like blow jobs
Bliggidy blingin’ blow jobs
While I have no qualms with blow jobs, you don’t need to blatantly sing about them – in your fucking chorus – so all the children can hear it as they ride the bus home from school. It’s just down right inappropriate. Think of the children, Flo Rida. The Obama loving socialist children!
While the lack of innuendo certainly brings on my inner Debbie Downer, the thing that irks me the most about this song is the fact that it samples and subsequently butchers an amazing 80’s classic – Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round.” It was bad enough that Jessica Simpson chiseled away at this song’s reputation but now this ass clown straight up nuked it. Why must we destroy everything thing that was once great?
Flo Rida mixed “You Spin Me Round” and fucked it up. George Lucas redid Star Wars and fucked it up. Brett Michaels redid Rock of Love and fucked it up only to fuck it up again (Taya over Mindy are you serious?). I mean is there really any point to having a positive outlook on life when shit like this goes down? Before you know it we’ll redo the great feats America accomplished during World War II, in movie format, by turning an infamous day into a sappy uninspired love story. Like . . . Michael Bay’s . . . . . . Pearl Harbor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fuck!
Lady Gaga
Where the hell did Lady Gaga come from? Seriously. Did she materialize out of various beats and jams, Sephora makeup, and Chinese food? Did she come from the mountains of Southeast Trickistan? Work sends me to a far off terrible place – a topic I will not delve into due to fear of “The Man” – for 4 months and when I come back she’s one of the most played musicians on the radio. I know I started this thing off just attacking songs but I had to write Lady Gaga because she has like 14 different songs that play on the radio, and at the club, every 15 minutes. Or maybe its two songs but whatever….
Now, the negativity brought out by Lady Gaga is different than the disgust towards the world I feel after the other two songs mentioned earlier because I don’t really hate the music, rather, I hate what the music makes me do, how it takes control. You see, when Lady Gaga starts playing on the radio my white 2006 Nissan Sentra that hasn’t been washed in months goes from a simple means of transportation to the flyest club in all the land – Club Sentra. I ignore the road. I ignore public safety laws. I even ignore common sensibility because all I seem to do is bust a move and get my freak on with the steering wheel. The usually solo dance party that ensues in my car goes beyond ridiculous. It’s dangerous!
What am I supposed to tell the police when I go into a Lady Gaga induced dance seizure while driving and end up running over an expecting mother and her adorable cat Boots who she happened to be walking at the time? Just roll with me here. Do I tell them, “But Lady Gaga was on the radio and I couldn’t stop dancing . . .”? And what do I tell the parents? “Sorry, you’re not going to be grandparents, but that new Lady Gaga track is the shiznit! Just Dance! Am I right? Come on, come on . . .” Both of these responses probably wouldn’t hold up in court and I’d end up in prison married to the guy with the most cigarettes. If I were a lucky man he would love to cuddle . . . .
So after all that’s been said it is obvious that my attitude is not the problem. The problem is the garbage they play on the radio that inadvertently influences my attitude into something that others don’t want to be around. You should have just told me not to listen to the radio, Swarm. But no, you threw me into the wild world we live acting like I have complete control over my attitude. What is that?
If you still aren’t convinced that bad music has a detrimental effect on how you view life then just do one more thing and read the lines directly below this:
Po po po poker face
Po po poker face!
Three words
Four Youoooooowoooooowooooooo
When you go down
When you go down down
You just turned a little sour didn’t you? I’m so right about everything.
Now, being a person who is always in pursuit of self improvement, I took a step back from the situation and thought long and hard about what Swarm said. After much reflection and meditation over a delicious Taco Bell Crunch Wrap, it occurred to me that I can be rather negative at times. Come to think of it, I do tend to have negative outlook about people and just about everything else (read blogs below). There’s also this tendency to wish to get into an all out brawl with those I loathe most only to see them get chopped up by an airplane propeller like on Indiana Jones. In the past I have been referred to as a Negative Nancy, a Debbie Downer, a Bitter Betty, and a Cynical Cindy. Never a Depressed Debra though……
So, after much thought and self loathing, I realized I have been living life with a pretty piss poor attitude. I mean why go through life looking at the glass as half empty? “Man the fuck up and fill that bitch up,” is what I should be telling myself. There’s really nothing to get down on about because let’s face it, I’m pretty much all around awesome with the exception of my lack of coordination which keeps me from playing most types of ball sports. I live in a house at a location that would make Garth Algar from Wayne’s World say, “This is a fully functional babe lair. Chicks are helpless against it’s powers.” Did I mention my awesomeness?
Well there I was all excited and inspired about becoming a Positive Polly and then it happened: I turned on the radio. I casually turned on the radio while driving home and once again I lost all faith in humanity. The cynicism I hoped to exorcise flowed through my veins and once again that damned glass was half empty. I even went back to viewing babies as selfish egomaniacs who are life’s ultimate Socialists. I mean seriously, all they do is lie around all day waiting for their hand-outs, various bail out plans of infantile proportions, while the rest of us hard working Americans slave away for these toddlers’ Marxist desires. If that right there isn’t redistribution of wealth in its purest and ugliest form than I don’t know what is. Take note Rush Limbaugh…..
Now, what songs have soured me over time you ask? Ha. Well seeing how the 90’s were the pinnacle of musical greatness I would blame my current attitude on a lot of the garbage that came out in the 2000s. But, considering I could write an entire novel about shitty music from the past nine years and how it destroyed my sense of hope and wonder, I’m just going to focus on the most recent songs that killed my hour and a half of positive thinking. Shall we?
Plain White T’s – “1, 2, 3, 4”
We all know Plain White T’s. You know, those slightly emo guys with the poppy twist who sing that Delilah song with the reference to New York City and being famous and what have you. Well, if you haven’t heard their newest single “1, 2, 3, 4” consider yourself hella blessed. That’s right. I busted out hella despite the fact that nobody says that anymore. That’s how fucking serious I am about letting you all know how this song raped and pillaged my soul’s village of Optimism like a horde of rampaging Vikings in search of valuable loot, buxom women, and the Northwest Passage.
To make you all understand how bad “1, 2, 3, 4” is, I’ll put it this way: it’s my favorite song next to “Small Child Screaming on Plane During the Duration of an 8 Hour Flight.” It makes Limp Bizkit’s 2000 single “Rollin” look like Beethoven inspired genius. I thought I’d never say anything good about Limp Bizkit but low and behold, you can find the good in anything when you are graced by something that is all out bad. Serious, the song is pure cheesy super lame assed shit. There is no redeeming quality about this song. No artistic substance or creative expression. Shit. A stanza of the ridiculously over the top sappy ass lyrics are below:
There’s only
ONE thing
Two do
Three words
Four you (mind you this “you” is drawn out to be yooouuuuuoooooowooooowoooooo”)
I love you
That’s the chorus to the song ladies and gentlemen and no it is not creative. It is sappy and annoying and I cringed just typing those lines. It looks like something you would find on one of those Disney themed cardboard Valentine’s Day cards you used to get in grade school. I fucking loved those – when I was 9 – but it doesn’t mean as an adult I want them in musical form while I drive home from a bad day at work.
Someone needs to check these guys for plagiarism because I’m pretty sure they ripped this song off from some pre-pubescent 7th grader who wrote it for his 8th grade girlfriend who upon receiving the song/poem broke up with the kid and called him a fag. The Plain White T’s found the song in the trash after the poor kid threw it away so he could go home to lick the emotional scars that will never heal because we never forget the first girl to rip our hearts out and beat it relentlessly with a crow bar covered in glass and bee stingers. Damn you, Megan! Damn you!!!!!
Wait, where was I again? Right. Cheese dick Plain White T’s song.
I know some of you out there are going to try and come to the rescue of this horrid excuse for music by coming out and saying something like, “Quit sipping on the Hatorade, Faheem. You’re just jealous because you never wrote about Delilah and they did and now they’re famous and married and living happily ever after with a white picket fence and a house mortgage they can’t afford.” Face the facts here. This song blows. Yet somehow it gets air time which in turn fuels my cynicism and as a result this negative energy cloud Hurricane Katrinas everything around me (too soon?). Its just impossible for me to emote positive energy wave lengths into the cosmos with the existence of this song. Sigh…….
Okay, moving on.
Flo Rida – “Right Round”
The “artist” behind this monstrosity of a song calls himself Flo Rida? Are you fucking serious? Was “The Continuously Smooth Passenger” already taken? Do you think he wanted to be called Flow Rider but there was already an 80’s hair band with the name? R we even teachin lil kidz to spel theez dayz? Okay I’m digressing. I’m sure Flo Rida is a guy of outstanding moral character, a thespian and a Shakespearean poet, who only uses the moniker to appeal to the urban market he could never really relate to.
Now, to his abortion of a track.
Not to try and sound all proper and puritanical – as you can tell by my use of colorful language I’m absolutely neither – but the blatant sexual reference in this “work of art” are just a little too much, which to me, shows a complete lack of artistic creativity. You want to be considered an artist don’t you, Flo Rida?
You spin my head right round, right round
When you go down, when you go down down
Come on, dude. What the hell happened to subtlety or innuendo for that matter? Musicians like Prince were the masters of this art form. I mean don’t get me wrong, Prince was, and is, an absolute pervert but he also displayed his mastery of innuendo in songs like his outstanding 1983 single “Little Red Corvette.” If you don’t know what “Little Red Corvette” means then ask your parents. Or maybe a pervert….
See the issue here is that before you know it, radio play will be reserved for uncreative and unoriginal music that goes into highly descriptive sexual detail because lets face it, its really easy to do. Here’s something my inner artist just came up with:
Give me a blow job
Because I like blow jobs
Bliggidy blingin’ blow jobs
While I have no qualms with blow jobs, you don’t need to blatantly sing about them – in your fucking chorus – so all the children can hear it as they ride the bus home from school. It’s just down right inappropriate. Think of the children, Flo Rida. The Obama loving socialist children!
While the lack of innuendo certainly brings on my inner Debbie Downer, the thing that irks me the most about this song is the fact that it samples and subsequently butchers an amazing 80’s classic – Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round.” It was bad enough that Jessica Simpson chiseled away at this song’s reputation but now this ass clown straight up nuked it. Why must we destroy everything thing that was once great?
Flo Rida mixed “You Spin Me Round” and fucked it up. George Lucas redid Star Wars and fucked it up. Brett Michaels redid Rock of Love and fucked it up only to fuck it up again (Taya over Mindy are you serious?). I mean is there really any point to having a positive outlook on life when shit like this goes down? Before you know it we’ll redo the great feats America accomplished during World War II, in movie format, by turning an infamous day into a sappy uninspired love story. Like . . . Michael Bay’s . . . . . . Pearl Harbor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fuck!
Lady Gaga
Where the hell did Lady Gaga come from? Seriously. Did she materialize out of various beats and jams, Sephora makeup, and Chinese food? Did she come from the mountains of Southeast Trickistan? Work sends me to a far off terrible place – a topic I will not delve into due to fear of “The Man” – for 4 months and when I come back she’s one of the most played musicians on the radio. I know I started this thing off just attacking songs but I had to write Lady Gaga because she has like 14 different songs that play on the radio, and at the club, every 15 minutes. Or maybe its two songs but whatever….
Now, the negativity brought out by Lady Gaga is different than the disgust towards the world I feel after the other two songs mentioned earlier because I don’t really hate the music, rather, I hate what the music makes me do, how it takes control. You see, when Lady Gaga starts playing on the radio my white 2006 Nissan Sentra that hasn’t been washed in months goes from a simple means of transportation to the flyest club in all the land – Club Sentra. I ignore the road. I ignore public safety laws. I even ignore common sensibility because all I seem to do is bust a move and get my freak on with the steering wheel. The usually solo dance party that ensues in my car goes beyond ridiculous. It’s dangerous!
What am I supposed to tell the police when I go into a Lady Gaga induced dance seizure while driving and end up running over an expecting mother and her adorable cat Boots who she happened to be walking at the time? Just roll with me here. Do I tell them, “But Lady Gaga was on the radio and I couldn’t stop dancing . . .”? And what do I tell the parents? “Sorry, you’re not going to be grandparents, but that new Lady Gaga track is the shiznit! Just Dance! Am I right? Come on, come on . . .” Both of these responses probably wouldn’t hold up in court and I’d end up in prison married to the guy with the most cigarettes. If I were a lucky man he would love to cuddle . . . .
So after all that’s been said it is obvious that my attitude is not the problem. The problem is the garbage they play on the radio that inadvertently influences my attitude into something that others don’t want to be around. You should have just told me not to listen to the radio, Swarm. But no, you threw me into the wild world we live acting like I have complete control over my attitude. What is that?
If you still aren’t convinced that bad music has a detrimental effect on how you view life then just do one more thing and read the lines directly below this:
Po po po poker face
Po po poker face!
Three words
Four Youoooooowoooooowooooooo
When you go down
When you go down down
You just turned a little sour didn’t you? I’m so right about everything.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Inner Children
What the hell happened to our inner child? And when I say our I guess I’m speaking of all the young adults out there who are officially adults due to the fact they can buy beer, porn, and cigarettes, but don’t really feel the part. I mean lets face it, life used to be so simple and awesome back in the day. You had a full time nanny/maid (mom), all the financial support you ever needed (dad), and a friend who supported you 100% despite all the flaws you might have had (Barney the purple dinosaur). School was actually fun, drugs were still bad, and the opposite sex was infected with a terrible disease that put AIDS and herpes to shame – cooties. Life was all play and no work. Life was good . . .
Now that I’ve reached adulthood all of that childish wonderment I had about the world has changed. I’m my own nanny, maid, and financial supporter. My closest friends are not creepy overly supportive dinosaurs who constantly sing to me that they love me and that we’re part of some magical happy family with a great big hug and a kiss from me to you . . . . They’re guys who will maliciously attack my flaws and tear me down whenever possible. What’s worse, is that after all those D.A.R.E. classes instead of saying no, I just said yes to alcohol and tobacco. In fact, I could sure go for some cigarette flavored vodka right about now. Yeah, that would be nice. But I digress . . .
Where was I again? Oh yeah. I work too much and play too little and I want to have sex with all the women I see. Okay, that’s a bit of an overstatement. Actually that’s a huge overstatement because I totally wouldn’t do Barbara Streisand or that weird looking lady on the news. But anyway, my point is that I no longer fear the cooties. I desire them.
So, I guess this all begs the question, as Adam Sandler put so well in the title of his classic comedy album: What the hell happened to me? I mean seriously. I used to want to be a zoo keeper when I grew up and now I have a job that involves killing people and no, I am not an abortion doctor (too soon?)! To complicate things even more, there is so much I want to get out of life now that I’m an “adult;” I want to be satisfied with myself; I want to find and embrace my purpose in life; I want to experience love and enjoy the fruits of companionship but still be able to do so without compromising who I am; And most of all, I want Rock band 2 with all the downloadable songs and a bitchin’ entertainment system to play it on. That shit is way too expensive for a kid to buy.
I guess these things complicate matters because they suppress the inner child. A child doesn’t want these things because I child can’t comprehend them and with the way public education is going these days, kids can barely comprehend basic multiplication tables. There’s even a study that shows some kids out there think we fought against the Russians and were allied with the Germans during WWII when everyone knows we teamed up with the Rebel Alliance to defeat the Galactic Empire during that war. But there I go digressing again . . .
Despite being adults, it’s easier to yearn for the days of our childhood because we knew exactly what we wanted. There was no rat race to run. No loneliness to battle. Even if our dreams of being a zoo keeper or a candy man were far fetched, we still knew what we wanted to be. There was beauty in simplicity and as a result, today we look to our inner child to return us to those simpler times.
Come to think of it though, is searching for that inner child really the right answer? I know I’m going back on myself after saying what the hell happened to our inner child but is it really what’s best for us? I talk about simplicity but let’s face it, simple is boring. Simple isn’t challenging. Easy on Rock Band is a drag on any instrument except drums, because I suck at the drums. You need to move up to the next level because when you finally face the complexity of life, you find it to be so much more beautiful and rewarding. The detail, intricacies, and complexities found in the works of the great artists like Michelangelo, Van Gogh, and El Greco are so much more pleasing to the human spirit than that dumb shit hungry caterpillar Eric Carle drew up. The elaborate trials and tribulations of adulthood teach us lessons about ourselves, about life. And these lessons are what really separate us from that inner child because we become aware of the unlimited possibilities life has to offer.
Yeah, all the unknown and random things out there can be kind of scary but that’s part of the great adventure of life. Kids love adventures and so should adults. So, as opposed to having your inner child keep you in a mental state of Scooby Doo underwear, tell that little shit to grow the fuck up and face what’s out there. Your inner child doesn’t have to die completely; however, they shouldn’t keep you from facing all that life has to offer. Use the spirit of your inner child to take a chance or do something random but have the maturity to learn and grow from it.
Now that I’m off my soap box of awesome, I have this final message of hope and encouragement. Whether you’re a man-boy (guilty), a wannabe princess, or still a huge fan of SpongeBob SquarePants (guilty), never fear. We’re going to make it through this. Seriously, we have no choice. I’m pretty sure being a child forever involves some sort of tax evasion and eventually the Feds are going to find your ass. Don’t do it. Keep that inner child alive but don’t let it consume you. If you do, you’ll just end up like Michael Jackson and he sleeps with little boys. That shit is wrong. Way wrong. Don’t be wrong.
Now that I’ve reached adulthood all of that childish wonderment I had about the world has changed. I’m my own nanny, maid, and financial supporter. My closest friends are not creepy overly supportive dinosaurs who constantly sing to me that they love me and that we’re part of some magical happy family with a great big hug and a kiss from me to you . . . . They’re guys who will maliciously attack my flaws and tear me down whenever possible. What’s worse, is that after all those D.A.R.E. classes instead of saying no, I just said yes to alcohol and tobacco. In fact, I could sure go for some cigarette flavored vodka right about now. Yeah, that would be nice. But I digress . . .
Where was I again? Oh yeah. I work too much and play too little and I want to have sex with all the women I see. Okay, that’s a bit of an overstatement. Actually that’s a huge overstatement because I totally wouldn’t do Barbara Streisand or that weird looking lady on the news. But anyway, my point is that I no longer fear the cooties. I desire them.
So, I guess this all begs the question, as Adam Sandler put so well in the title of his classic comedy album: What the hell happened to me? I mean seriously. I used to want to be a zoo keeper when I grew up and now I have a job that involves killing people and no, I am not an abortion doctor (too soon?)! To complicate things even more, there is so much I want to get out of life now that I’m an “adult;” I want to be satisfied with myself; I want to find and embrace my purpose in life; I want to experience love and enjoy the fruits of companionship but still be able to do so without compromising who I am; And most of all, I want Rock band 2 with all the downloadable songs and a bitchin’ entertainment system to play it on. That shit is way too expensive for a kid to buy.
I guess these things complicate matters because they suppress the inner child. A child doesn’t want these things because I child can’t comprehend them and with the way public education is going these days, kids can barely comprehend basic multiplication tables. There’s even a study that shows some kids out there think we fought against the Russians and were allied with the Germans during WWII when everyone knows we teamed up with the Rebel Alliance to defeat the Galactic Empire during that war. But there I go digressing again . . .
Despite being adults, it’s easier to yearn for the days of our childhood because we knew exactly what we wanted. There was no rat race to run. No loneliness to battle. Even if our dreams of being a zoo keeper or a candy man were far fetched, we still knew what we wanted to be. There was beauty in simplicity and as a result, today we look to our inner child to return us to those simpler times.
Come to think of it though, is searching for that inner child really the right answer? I know I’m going back on myself after saying what the hell happened to our inner child but is it really what’s best for us? I talk about simplicity but let’s face it, simple is boring. Simple isn’t challenging. Easy on Rock Band is a drag on any instrument except drums, because I suck at the drums. You need to move up to the next level because when you finally face the complexity of life, you find it to be so much more beautiful and rewarding. The detail, intricacies, and complexities found in the works of the great artists like Michelangelo, Van Gogh, and El Greco are so much more pleasing to the human spirit than that dumb shit hungry caterpillar Eric Carle drew up. The elaborate trials and tribulations of adulthood teach us lessons about ourselves, about life. And these lessons are what really separate us from that inner child because we become aware of the unlimited possibilities life has to offer.
Yeah, all the unknown and random things out there can be kind of scary but that’s part of the great adventure of life. Kids love adventures and so should adults. So, as opposed to having your inner child keep you in a mental state of Scooby Doo underwear, tell that little shit to grow the fuck up and face what’s out there. Your inner child doesn’t have to die completely; however, they shouldn’t keep you from facing all that life has to offer. Use the spirit of your inner child to take a chance or do something random but have the maturity to learn and grow from it.
Now that I’m off my soap box of awesome, I have this final message of hope and encouragement. Whether you’re a man-boy (guilty), a wannabe princess, or still a huge fan of SpongeBob SquarePants (guilty), never fear. We’re going to make it through this. Seriously, we have no choice. I’m pretty sure being a child forever involves some sort of tax evasion and eventually the Feds are going to find your ass. Don’t do it. Keep that inner child alive but don’t let it consume you. If you do, you’ll just end up like Michael Jackson and he sleeps with little boys. That shit is wrong. Way wrong. Don’t be wrong.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
"Buzz Buzz" - That's Bee for "I'm an Asshole"
Fuck bees. What’s that you say? I’m stealing material? So let me get this straight, just because some comedian said that exact phrase in one of his stand up routines I can’t say it myself? Did it some how become intellectually copyrighted material? It’s absolutely idiotic to think such a thing. Seriously, the phrase combines a commonly used swear word with the use of imperative mood followed by a noun. There’s nothing original or unique about it. Anyone can use this format. Watch:
“Fuck Dane Cook!”
Moving on.
So bees have been added to the long list of things that I can’t stand. I would have thought bees were already on there too but they were not until now. You see, up until recently I had never been stung by a bee. That’s right, unlike Macaulay Culkin in “My Girl” (what, too soon?) I went through my entire childhood without ever experiencing the painful ass thrusting of a bee. I even made it through the awkward and emotionally painful days of high school unscathed by bees. I guess everything wasn’t complete shit in high school but I digress.
College, no bees. It’s not until I enter the adult world that I get stung by fucking bees. You would think that bees go away once you become an adult, like the boogey man or a belief in “happily ever after,” but I assure you, those sons of bitches are out there and their stingers are real. Hella real. I was stung twice in two days. Emotionally, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
The first bee sting came as quite a surprise. There I was walking through the woods minding my own business when a bee came around and started buzzing around my head. Now, up to this point I had been dealing with bees all summer. Every time they buzzed around my head I just applied the T-Rex Method. You know, “He can’t see you if you don’t move.” (Jurassic Park anyone?) This always worked like a charm. The bee would buzz around a little bit and then go on its merry little way. Seeing how a bee was buzzing around my head I quickly utilized the T-Rex Method and halted all movement. Well this bee somehow missed the memo because the mother fucker decided to sting me right on the head. That’s right, on my head. The “Bzzzzzzz” he made didn’t mean, “I pollinate flowers and make honey,” it translated more closely to, “I hope the venom seeps into your brain and you die ass clown.”
The pain was excruciating. I had never felt such a thing in my life. It was like all the terrible pop music from the past 10 years had condensed into one pin prick and injected itself into my head. It hurt like a bitch. What was worse is that I’m an adult as all this happens. I couldn’t cry for an extended period of time in hopes of gaining some self-assuring attention and I couldn’t run to mommy for an all better kiss on the head. All I could do was focus in on the unreasonable pain coming from my head. Hopelessness set in as I winced in pain, all alone, making such sounds as, “Ooooooooooo,” and, “shhhhhhhhh-ahhhhhhh.” The terrible pain lasted for over and hour. I’m still scarred from it and I’m still bitter. I wish I could end my story here but the worst was yet to come.
What I’m about to tell you is factual and quite frankly very frightening. If you are rather squeamish, scare easily, or are under the age of 35 you may not want to read on. A true horror story is about to be revealed. Don’t say you weren’t warned. Second bee sting – the very next day:
So once again there I was walking through the woods minding my own damned business only this time the circumstances were a little more, how do I say this and sound ridiculously intelligent? Oh, right, the circumstances were gay. You see the second bee sting occurred while I was hiking up a mountain, in the middle of the night, while I carried 50 pounds of crap on my back. Why was I in such a situation? It’s too soon to talk about it. Too many bad memories . . . .
So I’m climbing this mountain in the middle of the night when all of a sudden I hear that familiar sound of a buzzing bee. Only this time the buzzing sound coincided almost instantaneously with a sting on my arm. Following the sting I quickly realized that the buzzing sound was coming from multiple sources and multiple directions. I had somehow managed to wander into a bee’s nest at night and it was very clear that the message the bees were sending to me with their buzzing translated into something along the lines of, “We are raging assholes who live only to inflict pain on helpless souls lost in the dark because we are hell spawn who hate freedom.” Yeah, it was something like that.
So what did your hero do? At this the point the T-Rex Method was moot considering I had already been stung and pin pointed as a target so I did what any manly man would do. I ran like a little girl up the hill screaming and cursing hoping the bees didn’t get me. Hey, don’t judge. I was instructed to run away if I came about a bee’s nest not swat at the bees like a moron only to be stung a million more times. You would have done the same thing. Well maybe not the whole screaming thing.
I ran about 100 feet up the mountain and stopped. While I was panting like a madman due to the combination of fear and physical exertion, I was relieved to be far away from the bees nest. Bees are small so 100 feet for them is like 15 miles for us. There’s no way they could have followed me I thought. Then I heard it. “Buzzzzzzzzz.” The bees followed, no chased me. They chased me up a fucking hill. Fearing for my life I took off sprinting up the mountain again only this time I sprinted further and faster and cursed a whole lot more. As I ran I pictured their stingers pointed at me, evil grins on their little bee faces as they sought to inject their poison into my blood stream.
After about 200 feet I stopped running. Sweat poured down my face as I stood there catching my breath, thinking about how crazy it was to have to run away from bees twice, up a mountain. It was almost comical in a demented way. Before I could wipe the sweat from my brow it happened again. “Buzz buzz.” You got to be shitting me was probably the first thing that came to mind. I broke T-Rex protocol and began swatting like a madman while simultaneously cursing the psychotic insectoid that stemmed from the Order Hymenoptera (I did a report on the Hymenoptera Order – of the insect Class that belongs to the Chordate Phylum which includes bees – in my zoology class in high school and I haven’t been able to show off the knowledge I gained form that report until now so please let me have this moment). Since it was dark I just swatted like a moron at the air while the bee continued to harass me with its buzzing taunts. Frustrated and nearly crying, I took off running uphill again.
It was like a scene straight out of a horror movie: a panic stricken victim running away from an unseen stalker who we all thought was dead but now he’s back and even more pissed and the victim is fleeing through the woods in the dark without any sense of direction. Except this horror movie sucked because it was me playing the role of the victim and there was no unnecessary boob shot. I mean, if you’re going to be brutally murdered by a raving poltergeist inspired psycho you should at least be able to see some boobs first.
I ran like a madman. I didn’t care that it was dark. I didn’t care about the rough terrain I was moving through. I zoned the fuck out and ran. All the while cursing, screaming, whining, and panting could be heard throughout the forest. I must have sounded like the biggest bitch in the world but I didn’t care. I was running for my life. After fleeing for quite some time I stopped to catch my breath and to assess the situation. Within just a few moments the horrific sound blared in my eardrum again, “Buzzzzzzzzzzz.” I shit you not. That bee was still on my ass. It was obvious that he wanted my tears, my blood, and my soul. I now know how Edgar Allen Poe’s character felt in the poem “The Raven.” I was on the very brink of insanity ready to turn my soul over to the darkness.
In a last ditch effort of self preservation I decided to try and run from the hell spawned bee one last time. This was it: victory or death. And once again I found myself running up a goddamn mountain in the middle of the goddamn night. As I ran sneaky allies of the bees began pitching in to assist in my demise. Tree branches, vines, and thick bushes all tried to wrap themselves around my body as I fled. I didn’t let them stop me. I plowed through them like progress through the rainforest and everyone knows you can’t stop progress. Nothing was going to stand in my way, well, except for more bees. And now that I think about it, a moat with some alligators in it probably would have been a difficult obstacle to overcome as well but there I am digressing again.
Despite Mother Nature’s best efforts, it was my own physical exhaustion that caused me to finally stop. At this point nothing mattered anymore. I gave 100 percent and then some. It was now time to accept my fate. As I stood there regretting all the things I hadn’t done in life I awaited the buzzing and then death by lethal bee injection. I waited and after 30 seconds the only thing that could be heard throughout the forest was my own breathing. Nothing. I waited awhile longer. No bee. It was now very clear to me. Somehow I survived. I regained composure and continued my march up the mountain forever a changed man.
Bees are terrible creatures. I am fortunate enough to have survived an encounter with them so I can warn you all about their evil plots of destruction. So next time you hear the familiar sound of a bee don’t be fooled. That “Buzz buzz” translates exactly into, “I’m an asshole.”
“Fuck Dane Cook!”
Moving on.
So bees have been added to the long list of things that I can’t stand. I would have thought bees were already on there too but they were not until now. You see, up until recently I had never been stung by a bee. That’s right, unlike Macaulay Culkin in “My Girl” (what, too soon?) I went through my entire childhood without ever experiencing the painful ass thrusting of a bee. I even made it through the awkward and emotionally painful days of high school unscathed by bees. I guess everything wasn’t complete shit in high school but I digress.
College, no bees. It’s not until I enter the adult world that I get stung by fucking bees. You would think that bees go away once you become an adult, like the boogey man or a belief in “happily ever after,” but I assure you, those sons of bitches are out there and their stingers are real. Hella real. I was stung twice in two days. Emotionally, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
The first bee sting came as quite a surprise. There I was walking through the woods minding my own business when a bee came around and started buzzing around my head. Now, up to this point I had been dealing with bees all summer. Every time they buzzed around my head I just applied the T-Rex Method. You know, “He can’t see you if you don’t move.” (Jurassic Park anyone?) This always worked like a charm. The bee would buzz around a little bit and then go on its merry little way. Seeing how a bee was buzzing around my head I quickly utilized the T-Rex Method and halted all movement. Well this bee somehow missed the memo because the mother fucker decided to sting me right on the head. That’s right, on my head. The “Bzzzzzzz” he made didn’t mean, “I pollinate flowers and make honey,” it translated more closely to, “I hope the venom seeps into your brain and you die ass clown.”
The pain was excruciating. I had never felt such a thing in my life. It was like all the terrible pop music from the past 10 years had condensed into one pin prick and injected itself into my head. It hurt like a bitch. What was worse is that I’m an adult as all this happens. I couldn’t cry for an extended period of time in hopes of gaining some self-assuring attention and I couldn’t run to mommy for an all better kiss on the head. All I could do was focus in on the unreasonable pain coming from my head. Hopelessness set in as I winced in pain, all alone, making such sounds as, “Ooooooooooo,” and, “shhhhhhhhh-ahhhhhhh.” The terrible pain lasted for over and hour. I’m still scarred from it and I’m still bitter. I wish I could end my story here but the worst was yet to come.
What I’m about to tell you is factual and quite frankly very frightening. If you are rather squeamish, scare easily, or are under the age of 35 you may not want to read on. A true horror story is about to be revealed. Don’t say you weren’t warned. Second bee sting – the very next day:
So once again there I was walking through the woods minding my own damned business only this time the circumstances were a little more, how do I say this and sound ridiculously intelligent? Oh, right, the circumstances were gay. You see the second bee sting occurred while I was hiking up a mountain, in the middle of the night, while I carried 50 pounds of crap on my back. Why was I in such a situation? It’s too soon to talk about it. Too many bad memories . . . .
So I’m climbing this mountain in the middle of the night when all of a sudden I hear that familiar sound of a buzzing bee. Only this time the buzzing sound coincided almost instantaneously with a sting on my arm. Following the sting I quickly realized that the buzzing sound was coming from multiple sources and multiple directions. I had somehow managed to wander into a bee’s nest at night and it was very clear that the message the bees were sending to me with their buzzing translated into something along the lines of, “We are raging assholes who live only to inflict pain on helpless souls lost in the dark because we are hell spawn who hate freedom.” Yeah, it was something like that.
So what did your hero do? At this the point the T-Rex Method was moot considering I had already been stung and pin pointed as a target so I did what any manly man would do. I ran like a little girl up the hill screaming and cursing hoping the bees didn’t get me. Hey, don’t judge. I was instructed to run away if I came about a bee’s nest not swat at the bees like a moron only to be stung a million more times. You would have done the same thing. Well maybe not the whole screaming thing.
I ran about 100 feet up the mountain and stopped. While I was panting like a madman due to the combination of fear and physical exertion, I was relieved to be far away from the bees nest. Bees are small so 100 feet for them is like 15 miles for us. There’s no way they could have followed me I thought. Then I heard it. “Buzzzzzzzzz.” The bees followed, no chased me. They chased me up a fucking hill. Fearing for my life I took off sprinting up the mountain again only this time I sprinted further and faster and cursed a whole lot more. As I ran I pictured their stingers pointed at me, evil grins on their little bee faces as they sought to inject their poison into my blood stream.
After about 200 feet I stopped running. Sweat poured down my face as I stood there catching my breath, thinking about how crazy it was to have to run away from bees twice, up a mountain. It was almost comical in a demented way. Before I could wipe the sweat from my brow it happened again. “Buzz buzz.” You got to be shitting me was probably the first thing that came to mind. I broke T-Rex protocol and began swatting like a madman while simultaneously cursing the psychotic insectoid that stemmed from the Order Hymenoptera (I did a report on the Hymenoptera Order – of the insect Class that belongs to the Chordate Phylum which includes bees – in my zoology class in high school and I haven’t been able to show off the knowledge I gained form that report until now so please let me have this moment). Since it was dark I just swatted like a moron at the air while the bee continued to harass me with its buzzing taunts. Frustrated and nearly crying, I took off running uphill again.
It was like a scene straight out of a horror movie: a panic stricken victim running away from an unseen stalker who we all thought was dead but now he’s back and even more pissed and the victim is fleeing through the woods in the dark without any sense of direction. Except this horror movie sucked because it was me playing the role of the victim and there was no unnecessary boob shot. I mean, if you’re going to be brutally murdered by a raving poltergeist inspired psycho you should at least be able to see some boobs first.
I ran like a madman. I didn’t care that it was dark. I didn’t care about the rough terrain I was moving through. I zoned the fuck out and ran. All the while cursing, screaming, whining, and panting could be heard throughout the forest. I must have sounded like the biggest bitch in the world but I didn’t care. I was running for my life. After fleeing for quite some time I stopped to catch my breath and to assess the situation. Within just a few moments the horrific sound blared in my eardrum again, “Buzzzzzzzzzzz.” I shit you not. That bee was still on my ass. It was obvious that he wanted my tears, my blood, and my soul. I now know how Edgar Allen Poe’s character felt in the poem “The Raven.” I was on the very brink of insanity ready to turn my soul over to the darkness.
In a last ditch effort of self preservation I decided to try and run from the hell spawned bee one last time. This was it: victory or death. And once again I found myself running up a goddamn mountain in the middle of the goddamn night. As I ran sneaky allies of the bees began pitching in to assist in my demise. Tree branches, vines, and thick bushes all tried to wrap themselves around my body as I fled. I didn’t let them stop me. I plowed through them like progress through the rainforest and everyone knows you can’t stop progress. Nothing was going to stand in my way, well, except for more bees. And now that I think about it, a moat with some alligators in it probably would have been a difficult obstacle to overcome as well but there I am digressing again.
Despite Mother Nature’s best efforts, it was my own physical exhaustion that caused me to finally stop. At this point nothing mattered anymore. I gave 100 percent and then some. It was now time to accept my fate. As I stood there regretting all the things I hadn’t done in life I awaited the buzzing and then death by lethal bee injection. I waited and after 30 seconds the only thing that could be heard throughout the forest was my own breathing. Nothing. I waited awhile longer. No bee. It was now very clear to me. Somehow I survived. I regained composure and continued my march up the mountain forever a changed man.
Bees are terrible creatures. I am fortunate enough to have survived an encounter with them so I can warn you all about their evil plots of destruction. So next time you hear the familiar sound of a bee don’t be fooled. That “Buzz buzz” translates exactly into, “I’m an asshole.”
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The Socially Interactive Drug of the Ages
I fucking hate Facebook. But then again, I have this lustful attraction to Facebook that keeps me coming back for more despite the destruction it reaps on my mental and emotional stability. You see Facebook is like the abusive asshole boyfriend the meek and impressionable girl can’t stay away from. It’s the heroin the rock star can’t seem to kick. It slowly breaks you down killing you inside every day you stay with it. It takes your livelihood, your self respect, and your soul. It owns you.
My addiction to Facebook began nearly four years ago. I was a young impressionable sophomore in college then with not a whole lot going on outside my studies and things seemed so mundane. There was something missing from my boring life and while some claimed that it was God, I knew the void I was feeling had to result from something far more superficial and potentially destructive. I needed a vice – a guilty pleasure that was wrong but oh so right. Quick fixes always beat the eternal satisfaction of spirituality, right?
While crystal meth, pain killers, and the TV show “Friends” all crossed my mind as possible vices, they just seemed a little too extreme to someone looking to ease their way into the world of vice. I was a good student after all – a genius at that – absorbed by his studies in the pursuit of increased intellectual capacity. I was a fucking nerd, okay? And for this reason, I knew I had to find a vice fast even if I might never come to like it (think lame ass unfunny dialogue from “Friends”). Within one week’s time, without knowledge, the vice slipped itself into my life and made me forget all about finding one. It happened once my peers began discussing a term that would become branded into my mind, branded on my very soul – Facebook.
The Facebook epidemic spread across my school in record fashion. It was like 14th century Europe all over again, well minus the whole bloated oozing bodies lying in the street thing. But nonetheless, a new and arguably more dangerous plague had just planted itself. I obviously got caught up in the whole thing. It was so cool at first. I mean look at all the neato things I could do:
I could be “friends” with people I was friends with in real life; I could be “friends” with mere acquaintances; I could reconnect with the 8 people I gave a shit about from high school; I could “poke” people; I could leave witty messages on the walls of my friends; and I could edit a personal profile that provided a window into the thoughts and feelings of the real me.
While Myspace – the online social network that preceded Facebook – essentially provided all the same gimmicks, Facebook was exclusive. Your school had to have a network in order to use it. If your school didn’t have a network or, if you didn’t even go to school (and by school I mean university), then you weren’t cool enough to be on Facebook. It also had a classier feel. It didn’t have that slutty back alley whore feel that Myspace had. There were no annoying ads or obnoxious display schemes. No Tila Tequila. It was like the new refined drug that was supposedly better for you and us pretentious college kids ate that shit up. Why do crack when you can do cocaine? Am I right Whitney?
Needless to say I was all about the Facebook. It was great. I finally had something to occupy my time with and it felt as if the void I was experiencing had finally been filled. Facebook provided me with hours of euphoric diversion, unmatched by anything I had ever experienced in life. I was making new “friends” nearly everyday. I had my profile just the way I wanted it. I even had the perfect profile pic up which screamed, “I’m cool. Look at me! Look at me!” In the morning I was on Facebook. If I had an hour or even 20 minutes between classes, I was on Facebook. After lunch I was on Facebook and before bed I was on Facebook. The high was amazing. I was addicted.
Pretty soon things got absolutely stupid on Facebook and by things I mean me – I got absolutely stupid on the Facebook. For example I started becoming “friends” with people I didn’t even like. It was like, “Douchey McDoucherson wants to be my friend? I fucking hate that guy.” And then without thinking I would quickly accept his friend request and read through his entire profile. Twice. And then there was the narcissistic obsession of making sure my profile portrayed me as the coolest guy ever. About once a week I would analyze my profile making sure that all the information displayed was not only correct, but witty and hip as well. I should have been swearing off Facebook due to my acts of lameness however due to its intoxicating pull, things I would have deemed in the common yet potentially offensive college lingo as “gay” or “retarded” didn’t seem to bother me.
At times it seemed like the lure of Facebook would wear off however every time you started to get bored they would add something new – as novel as it was – that would keep you hooked. First there was the ability to post photos and look at other people’s posted photos. Like many of my “friends,” I could now dedicate an entire photo album to increasing my level on the coolness meter. Posted photos were all too predictable. The albums I posted included all the typical photos like: me drinking, me being drunk, me standing next to some famous monument or landmark, me standing next to some famous monument or landmark while being drunk. Posting “look how wasted I am” pictures became just as common as your average STD.
After photos, came notes, and then there came the infamous Facebook newsfeed. It was like the news except it wasn’t boring and unimportant like all the stories coming out of places like Iraq and Darfur. Honestly, why should I pay attention to some silly war when it was just revealed that Sally added Dave Matthews Band to her favorite music? This news involved people you knew! You could now count on something new being on Facebook every time you signed on. The frequency I signed on to Facebook multiplied after this. I just couldn’t get enough of the high. Five, six times a day, it never seemed to be enough.
My debilitating addiction to Facebook lasted without question for nearly three years. During that course, I had no idea that it was destroying me inside but soon, as all addicts discover, I realized the high I was getting from Facebook was a bad thing. Even though I kept coming back for more, the euphoric feeling I enjoyed so much began to wear away. I was getting on Facebook just to get on Facebook. It all started to seem so silly. I was keeping up on the lives of people I didn’t even bother to talk to. What was worse is I became bothered by information about certain people that I would not have known if it wasn’t for the Facebook newsfeed. Whether it was finding out that an old flame was in a relationship, engaged, or hell even married, or that one of my “friends” never responded back on my wall, Facebook bothered me when I wasn’t even on it.
My emotional state was all out of whack. It was like that movie “Requiem for a Dream.” Remember how things were all awesome in that movie for a little bit and then everything went to shit for the characters and the mom was put in a nut house, and the son lost his arm, and the black guy went to jail, and the girl went ass to ass, and all the childlike wonder you held about the world was utterly destroyed, and then a box full of kittens exploded somewhere???? It was that bad except in my brain! Ass to ass in my brain . . . I still don’t know how to explain what that’s like.
So, after doing some soul searching, suffering a Facebook induced nervous breakdown, and rolling around in 11 different bodily fluids, I had an epiphany:
Facebook is the most shallow form of human interaction possible.
Even though I had the Facebook newsfeed and I kept up to date on my friends’ profiles, my actions showed that I really didn’t give a shit about them and I’m pretty sure they didn’t give a shit about me (they would have written on my wall if they had). There was absolutely no interaction going on, merely peeping in on others lives without them knowing. If I had really cared wouldn’t I have at least sent an email to keep in contact? Facebook had turned me into a bad friend, hell, a bad person. Facebook was destroying what made me human – social interaction.
Because of my brilliant epiphany, I quit Facebook cold turkey at the beginning of the year. I was done with it. I deactivated my account. It was all over.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve been clean for 5 months and that life has been great. I wish I could say I’ll never go back to Facebook. But I can’t. After about two months of absolutely no Facebook I went crawling back. The withdrawals were just too much and I was too weak. I would get on my computer and the Facebook would just call to me. Every time I placed my fingers on the keyboard I would think about how amazing it used to feel to be on Facebook. My daily internet routine just wasn’t the same without Facebook time. For two months, life just didn’t seem the same and for that reason I had to go back. I just couldn’t stay away.
I know you must be disappointed in me especially after all I’ve said and been through. I know I seem like a hypocrite for telling you how awful Facebook is and then revealing that I’m still on it but I’m only human. Hey, Steven Tyler from Aerosmith is back in rehab. Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots just got out again. Those guys obviously didn’t quit the first time around. Cut me some fucking slack. At least I haven’t gone the way of Kurt Cobain. What? Too soon . . . ?
But when it comes down to it, Facebook isn't the problem. I'm the problem. I’m an addict and I need help. Looking back I was so naïve to think Facebook was actually a good thing. Had I known that I’d be in the state that I am in now I would have never started. Is there still hope for me? I’d like to think so.
So, let’s try this one more time:
Hi, my name is Faheem, and I’m addicted to Facebook.
My addiction to Facebook began nearly four years ago. I was a young impressionable sophomore in college then with not a whole lot going on outside my studies and things seemed so mundane. There was something missing from my boring life and while some claimed that it was God, I knew the void I was feeling had to result from something far more superficial and potentially destructive. I needed a vice – a guilty pleasure that was wrong but oh so right. Quick fixes always beat the eternal satisfaction of spirituality, right?
While crystal meth, pain killers, and the TV show “Friends” all crossed my mind as possible vices, they just seemed a little too extreme to someone looking to ease their way into the world of vice. I was a good student after all – a genius at that – absorbed by his studies in the pursuit of increased intellectual capacity. I was a fucking nerd, okay? And for this reason, I knew I had to find a vice fast even if I might never come to like it (think lame ass unfunny dialogue from “Friends”). Within one week’s time, without knowledge, the vice slipped itself into my life and made me forget all about finding one. It happened once my peers began discussing a term that would become branded into my mind, branded on my very soul – Facebook.
The Facebook epidemic spread across my school in record fashion. It was like 14th century Europe all over again, well minus the whole bloated oozing bodies lying in the street thing. But nonetheless, a new and arguably more dangerous plague had just planted itself. I obviously got caught up in the whole thing. It was so cool at first. I mean look at all the neato things I could do:
I could be “friends” with people I was friends with in real life; I could be “friends” with mere acquaintances; I could reconnect with the 8 people I gave a shit about from high school; I could “poke” people; I could leave witty messages on the walls of my friends; and I could edit a personal profile that provided a window into the thoughts and feelings of the real me.
While Myspace – the online social network that preceded Facebook – essentially provided all the same gimmicks, Facebook was exclusive. Your school had to have a network in order to use it. If your school didn’t have a network or, if you didn’t even go to school (and by school I mean university), then you weren’t cool enough to be on Facebook. It also had a classier feel. It didn’t have that slutty back alley whore feel that Myspace had. There were no annoying ads or obnoxious display schemes. No Tila Tequila. It was like the new refined drug that was supposedly better for you and us pretentious college kids ate that shit up. Why do crack when you can do cocaine? Am I right Whitney?
Needless to say I was all about the Facebook. It was great. I finally had something to occupy my time with and it felt as if the void I was experiencing had finally been filled. Facebook provided me with hours of euphoric diversion, unmatched by anything I had ever experienced in life. I was making new “friends” nearly everyday. I had my profile just the way I wanted it. I even had the perfect profile pic up which screamed, “I’m cool. Look at me! Look at me!” In the morning I was on Facebook. If I had an hour or even 20 minutes between classes, I was on Facebook. After lunch I was on Facebook and before bed I was on Facebook. The high was amazing. I was addicted.
Pretty soon things got absolutely stupid on Facebook and by things I mean me – I got absolutely stupid on the Facebook. For example I started becoming “friends” with people I didn’t even like. It was like, “Douchey McDoucherson wants to be my friend? I fucking hate that guy.” And then without thinking I would quickly accept his friend request and read through his entire profile. Twice. And then there was the narcissistic obsession of making sure my profile portrayed me as the coolest guy ever. About once a week I would analyze my profile making sure that all the information displayed was not only correct, but witty and hip as well. I should have been swearing off Facebook due to my acts of lameness however due to its intoxicating pull, things I would have deemed in the common yet potentially offensive college lingo as “gay” or “retarded” didn’t seem to bother me.
At times it seemed like the lure of Facebook would wear off however every time you started to get bored they would add something new – as novel as it was – that would keep you hooked. First there was the ability to post photos and look at other people’s posted photos. Like many of my “friends,” I could now dedicate an entire photo album to increasing my level on the coolness meter. Posted photos were all too predictable. The albums I posted included all the typical photos like: me drinking, me being drunk, me standing next to some famous monument or landmark, me standing next to some famous monument or landmark while being drunk. Posting “look how wasted I am” pictures became just as common as your average STD.
After photos, came notes, and then there came the infamous Facebook newsfeed. It was like the news except it wasn’t boring and unimportant like all the stories coming out of places like Iraq and Darfur. Honestly, why should I pay attention to some silly war when it was just revealed that Sally added Dave Matthews Band to her favorite music? This news involved people you knew! You could now count on something new being on Facebook every time you signed on. The frequency I signed on to Facebook multiplied after this. I just couldn’t get enough of the high. Five, six times a day, it never seemed to be enough.
My debilitating addiction to Facebook lasted without question for nearly three years. During that course, I had no idea that it was destroying me inside but soon, as all addicts discover, I realized the high I was getting from Facebook was a bad thing. Even though I kept coming back for more, the euphoric feeling I enjoyed so much began to wear away. I was getting on Facebook just to get on Facebook. It all started to seem so silly. I was keeping up on the lives of people I didn’t even bother to talk to. What was worse is I became bothered by information about certain people that I would not have known if it wasn’t for the Facebook newsfeed. Whether it was finding out that an old flame was in a relationship, engaged, or hell even married, or that one of my “friends” never responded back on my wall, Facebook bothered me when I wasn’t even on it.
My emotional state was all out of whack. It was like that movie “Requiem for a Dream.” Remember how things were all awesome in that movie for a little bit and then everything went to shit for the characters and the mom was put in a nut house, and the son lost his arm, and the black guy went to jail, and the girl went ass to ass, and all the childlike wonder you held about the world was utterly destroyed, and then a box full of kittens exploded somewhere???? It was that bad except in my brain! Ass to ass in my brain . . . I still don’t know how to explain what that’s like.
So, after doing some soul searching, suffering a Facebook induced nervous breakdown, and rolling around in 11 different bodily fluids, I had an epiphany:
Facebook is the most shallow form of human interaction possible.
Even though I had the Facebook newsfeed and I kept up to date on my friends’ profiles, my actions showed that I really didn’t give a shit about them and I’m pretty sure they didn’t give a shit about me (they would have written on my wall if they had). There was absolutely no interaction going on, merely peeping in on others lives without them knowing. If I had really cared wouldn’t I have at least sent an email to keep in contact? Facebook had turned me into a bad friend, hell, a bad person. Facebook was destroying what made me human – social interaction.
Because of my brilliant epiphany, I quit Facebook cold turkey at the beginning of the year. I was done with it. I deactivated my account. It was all over.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve been clean for 5 months and that life has been great. I wish I could say I’ll never go back to Facebook. But I can’t. After about two months of absolutely no Facebook I went crawling back. The withdrawals were just too much and I was too weak. I would get on my computer and the Facebook would just call to me. Every time I placed my fingers on the keyboard I would think about how amazing it used to feel to be on Facebook. My daily internet routine just wasn’t the same without Facebook time. For two months, life just didn’t seem the same and for that reason I had to go back. I just couldn’t stay away.
I know you must be disappointed in me especially after all I’ve said and been through. I know I seem like a hypocrite for telling you how awful Facebook is and then revealing that I’m still on it but I’m only human. Hey, Steven Tyler from Aerosmith is back in rehab. Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots just got out again. Those guys obviously didn’t quit the first time around. Cut me some fucking slack. At least I haven’t gone the way of Kurt Cobain. What? Too soon . . . ?
But when it comes down to it, Facebook isn't the problem. I'm the problem. I’m an addict and I need help. Looking back I was so naïve to think Facebook was actually a good thing. Had I known that I’d be in the state that I am in now I would have never started. Is there still hope for me? I’d like to think so.
So, let’s try this one more time:
Hi, my name is Faheem, and I’m addicted to Facebook.
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