The only thing Facebook is good for is accommodating chicks after a night at the club. They wake up in the morning, down a glass of water, and, clutching their iPhones, smile with quiet pride as they scroll past names and numbers they only vaguely remember. I wonder how many my besties got, they might ask themselves.

Before you can wake up from the dream she’s starring in, the girl you drunk texted your name to at 4 a.m. is already skimming through your pictures, recalling the bad breath that accompanied your pickup lines, the ones you got from that movie you hoped she hadn’t seen. Cloudy flashbacks of your face start to clear up. Within seconds, she can validate her reason for giving you her number, or conclude that her taste in men was blurred by one drink too many—the one you bought her—and, with very little effort, she can avoid any post-club “dates” with you. That’s the convenience of the Facebook Era—the ease with which you can rid yourself of inconveniences before you even get out of bed, before you even start a new day.

We have a new year ahead of us and a new year calls for a resolutions list. But enough with the over-ambitious resolutions that never amount to shit. I’m never going to go to the gym seven days a week and audition for a spot on Jersey Shore. This year, my resolution will have immediate results. I’m deleting my Facebook. So I won’t be able to accommodate chicks, so I won’t know the birthdays of my acquaintances—so what? I’ve come to hate it more than almost anything and still I go back to it every day. Take the News Feed, for example. Why would I want to know who my “friends” just became “friends” with? Unless he’s going to hook me up, I couldn’t care less that some guy I met at a party three years ago is now friends with a hot brunette.

Like, shit, all the changes Facebook brought to its website through the years and there is STILL a “poke” feature? Does anyone really use that thing? And, if so, I need names ASAP. Anyone who pokes people on Facebook should have an automatic restraining order issued against him, with a notification sent to the local police chief’s account and shit. For all I know, these are the same people whose faces are on that channel that shows pictures of wanted murderers, pedophiles, and people who stole dirty magazines from a dépanneur because they were too embarrassed to pay for them at the counter.

Who knows, maybe sometime in two years I’ll decide to come back to Facebook and it won’t be the hub of degeneracy it was when I left it. Or maybe our society will have dwindled further down, so low that it will have adopted a new medium for social networking, something more in tune with the current generation’s increasing desire for social exhibitionism.

Something called Genitaltablet perhaps, “face” and “book” now being considered too bland and not public enough, where people post photos of their genitals several times a week and tag the last person they slept with. Obviously, club chicks will have 3,532 tagged photos, while frail-looking dudes with acne problems will have one or two, at most. And, inevitably, creatine-using guys who take full advantage of their tanning salon memberships and wear extra-small sprinkle-covered Ed Hardy t-shirts will create gimmick accounts. Because they’re going to need to be tagging something to prove the existence of all those hot broads they’re always lying about.

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