Excerpt-Red Flag: Mr. Casanova and Company

     First semester of grad school: check. I survived, it's a miracle. I did more writing this semester than I've done in 22 years. True story. But-I'm proud of everything I accomplished because I really didn't think it was possible when I started in August. My jaw dropped when one of my teacher's said we would have to complete 70 pages worth of a novel by the end of the semester for my, 'Writing the Novel' class(who knew the assignment was right there in the title), but I did it, and I know now that I can do so much more. I got some great feedback from teachers and classmates, and even though it wasn't always want I wanted to hear, I know my writing is improving and that I'm one step closer to my dream job.
  
     So, to celebrate the fact that I didn't die, I thought I'd share a snippet from my favorite essay of the semester, Red Flag: Mr. Casanova and Company. I feel the need to warn girls about red flags when it comes to those lovely douchers we so often encounter in our lives. If you catch the red flags early, it will save you a lot of fustration, therapy, and tears, believe me. I had a lot of fun exploiting my idiocy from the past in this, so I hope you enjoy it too. Below is the first section (Full essay contains Mr. Casanova and Mr. Once a Month). Happy reading.

Red Flag: Mr. Marry Me and Have my Babies

      The work week was over, my homework was done, and it was Saturday night—I was ready to “just dance” (thanks Lady Gaga). And ok, the thought of falling in love with my potential future boyfriend did slip into my head—as usual. But, mostly I just wanted to unwind with my friends at where I thought at the time was the coolest 18 and under club ever in Baltimore, Bourbon Street.

     As soon as we arrived, the stench of sweat, alcohol, smoke, and shame filled my nostrils. Rachel, Madison, and I headed for the rooftop portion of the club, where the tiki style bar was located—it made us feel like we were at a fabulous luau. Madison and I stood talking while Rachel bought a drink. I’m pretty sure we were complaining about not being 21 yet, when two boys interrupted our whining. Wah Wah Wah. The boys hugged Madison as if she was their long lost sister and not just a girl they had gone to college with.

     “Oh my gosh, I haven’t seen you guys in forever!”

     “What’s it been, two years?”

     That went on for a while before she introduced me. The first boy, who looked like he hadn’t hit puberty yet, shook my hand, barely looked at me, and went on talking to Madison. The second boy took his time. He looked into my eyes for a good five seconds. I thought maybe I had something on my face. He then took my hand and kissed it, while looking at me the entire time. These days I’d probably throw up if someone did that to me, but that day, I thought it was dreamy. I’d like to give you a detailed description of his appearance, I really would, but, I don’t remember anything about it. I think this is mostly because I locked it out of memory and buried the key.

     We proceeded to dance all night. As soon as he said, “I’m a high school Spanish teacher,” I was smitten. I didn’t think anything of it when he told me he was 25 years old (25 years old… at an 18 and under club). Yeah.  I also didn’t think anything of it when Madison told me later that night that they had gone to school together (she a freshman, he a senior) and went on one horrible awkward date, but that maybe it would work out with us.  Yeah. I still didn’t think anything of it when he texted me within an hour of us meeting, asking me out on a date, “ASAP” (insert winkey face). Yeah. I wonder about myself sometimes.

                                                                       *   *    *

      I drove up to Starbucks where we had planned to meet and saw a very tall guy standing outside waiting. I couldn’t believe I was about to have coffee with someone I barely knew. Part of me wanted to drive away, but instead, I took a deep breath and walked over to the stranger awaiting me.

      We stood in line awkwardly as he tried to make small talk, and compliment my “Belleza” (beauty).We approached the cashier—I ordered, he ordered, and after not even attempting to pull out his wallet, I paid. Me, a 19 year old poor student girl, paid for this 25 year old teacher’s coffee.    

     We grabbed a table—a table so miniscule it could probably fit two baby dolls. But we sat there anyway. Not even an inch apart from each other’s faces. There was no escaping.

     Then the job interview began. Position: wife.

     “So, who are you, Stephanie Osorno?”

     Damn, why did I give him my last name?? Idiot moment #30303.

     “How many people are in your family? Are you close to your family? I come from a family of 10. What do you like to do? What are your plans for life? Do you want many kids when you get married? Are you the kind of person that would want a small wedding, or a big wedding? What’s your GPA?”

     That’s right about where I drew the line. What was this guy going to ask for next, my Social Security number? Mr. Marry Me and Have my Babies seemed perfect the night out in Bourbon Street. He was polite, had an established career, and didn’t wait to ask me out. The idea of quick love was exhilarating to me at the time. I wanted to bypass all the awkward dating stuff and skip straight to relationship. I wanted to find the one already—the way my sisters had. They seemed happy, and I wanted to be too. I wasn’t content on my own, so I thought a boyfriend might be able to help. A husband, however, was a different story.

     “I’m sorry, isn’t it weird for you to go on a date with a 19 year old?” I finally asked.

     “No, you seem very mature for your age. I told all my friends that. Age doesn’t matter to me. You’re my Spanish princess.”

     “Oh, thanks, that’s nic—“

     “I think we can really be something. We are going to be happy. I think this is the start of something great.” Pause. “My Spanish princess.”

     He stared and stared and stared. I nodded my head. I was speechless. I was terrified. I looked down at my phone. I needed a plan.

     “Hey, I’m really sorry, but I have to head out,” I lied.

     “Oh, where you headed??

     “I, uh, I have to get ready for work tomorrow.”

     “Oh, it’s 5pm, what do you have to get ready for?”

     “Um, paperwork… stuff. It’s a pain.”

     “Ok, I’ll walk to your car.”

     “No, no I’m fine really. Thank you though.”

     He stood up and gave me a hug. It lasted too long.

     “Dinner on Saturday??”

     “Absolutely.” 

I never saw him again.

Selflessness

My dad asked me the other day what I like to write about the most. It didn’t take me very long to respond—relationships . I find them fascinating. I would write a research paper on them and not cry or procrastinate.  There’s just something amazing about how two people—two completely different people—can connect on such a powerful level and then call it love. One day I will write a book about love and relationships and title it, “Everyone should fall in love, get married, and have babies,” but for now, a blog will have to do.  

He was confused about my answer. He asked, “How much can you write about relationships?” I said lots—what makes a relationship work, what doesn’t work—but he stopped me before I could go on. He told me the key to a successful relationship was simple, “Selflessness.” My dad insisted that if you’re selfish, it’s impossible to be in relationship, and that’s that. Case closed.  To make his point clearer he offered an example about my mom. He shared that a few nights prior, at 12pm, when the light had been turned off and the covers were already warm, my mom asked for water. He was exhausted from working the entire day, and just wanted to stay nestled in bed. The thought of walking down the steps was painful. But, if he didn’t go, it would mean he was selfish. He knew my mom didn’t feel well all day and didn’t have any energy to get up. So, he forced himself out of bed and into the refrigerator. It was a small example, but it stuck with me. Selflessness.

Then I thought about my own relationship. I thought about how even though we’ve been together for over a year now, I’m still trying to learn how to be a girlfriend(don’t these things come with a handbook?) I thought you just fell in love, and then lived happily ever after. No one told me I had to do anything. This is my first relationship that has lasted over a month, cut me a break people. It’s a whole other world. Now all of a sudden I have to think about someone other than myself—who came up with this idea? Ok, confession. There are times when I could easily have gone for a nice long nap, instead of going out to dinner or to the movies or to wherever our imaginations take us. But I passed, because I wanted to make time for Jon, despite my delirium. There are times when I could have said,” I’m too tired to listen to your complaints because I’m too busy thinking of mine.” But instead, I listened—really listened. There are times when I could have stayed in and caught up with some of my favorite TV shows that I’ve missed (thanks a ton grad school),  instead of going to his house and spending time with his family. Instead, I said “I’d love to,” because his family is largely responsible for the amazing person he is today. All that time I thought I was just doing what a good girlfriend is supposed to do.But then my dad put it so simply, “Selflessness.” I think he’s on to something.

But why?

I like to ask why. I guess I never got over that 3 year old stage of—but why, but why, but why, but why??

 
I particularly like to ask why when my boyfriend says, I love you.
 
It’s something we throw out every day. Before we leave, we tell our boyfriend/girlfriend , husband/wife, mom/dad, sister/brother, I love you. We end our phone conversation with, I love you—or some shortened version along the lines of, “love ya!” or “love you!” We go to bed and say I love you before we doze against our pillow.
  
But do we know why we say it, or has it just become the norm—another custom like washing our hands or brushing our teeth?

I ask my boyfriend why on a regular basis. In the beginning, the conversation went something like this:

     “I love you.”

     “Why?”

     “Because you’re not like anyone else.”

     “But why?”
 
     “Because you’re smart, beautiful, and funny.”

I told him this wasn’t an acceptable answer. Everyone can be smart, beautiful, and funny. It’s too generic. I wanted to know what made me stand out from the rest. What was it that I did or said that made me different—loveable.

  
 After several instances of, “try again”, it started to get better. It now goes something like this:

     “I love you.”

     “Why?”

     “Because you’re not like anyone else.”

     “But why?”

     “Because you make me happier than anyone else can.”

     “Why?”

     “Because you’re you.”

     “But why?”

Answers Vary:

      “Because you think I look like Ryan Gosling.  Because you’re adorable when you make your angry face. Because I see the future when I look into your eyes. Because you make me feel like I’m most important person in the world ever.”

I love you is a powerful 8 letter phrase. It makes a friendship. It makes a bond. It makes a home. It makes a life. It changes our lives. So, why not remind those who love us how we got there every once in a while?

I love you is a powerful 8 letter phrase. It’s easy to say. It’s not easy to explain. But it’s worth a shot. You might like what you hear.

Next time someone special says I love you—ask, why?

Excerpt : Call me Lucy, I'll call you Benjy

     Normally, I don’t really like to share my writing unless forced. I much rather keep it between me, Dell, and word. They don’t ever judge me, and they don’t mind if it takes me two hours to write a paragraph. But gosh darn, through all the dreadful work shopping and critiquing of my papers that I’ve had to do in grad school so far (and it’s only my first semester…crap), I’m learning that putting myself out there is beneficial in the long—though right now it causes me anxiety and mental breakdowns. For now, I’ll just sit there crying inside, while I wait for the nice people to raise their hand. EEK. So here goes, an excerpt from the novel I’m working on for my “Writing the Novel” class, Call me Lucy, I’ll call you Benjy.

           After I’m done I decide I need something much stronger. I roam around the kitchen for a while looking for something other than vodka and beer and spot a bottle of Jack Daniels in one of the cabinets. I stare at the bottle for a while and then open the lid to smell it. The smell makes me want to gag immediately and sort of reminds me of a 65 year old retired man, so I put it back. But just as I’m closing as the cabinet, Vick appears right next to me. I can’t stand Vick. In fact, I like to think of him fondly as, “Vick the Dick.” He is ridiculously arrogant and rude, and if he could marry himself he probably would. Other than the fact that he could probably buy this school and maybe two more if he wanted to, he has absolutely nothing to offer. He might just be the most unfortunate looking guy at this school. His face is hideously decorated with acne from forehead to chin that matches his equally grotesque bushy eyebrows that go on for days in a straight line. He wears black Armani glasses, which he thinks makes him look “sophisticated” and “intelligent” but, it might as well be a Halloween costume.  In actuality, he is one of the dumbest people I’ve ever met. You will almost always find him in a sweater vest, black or blue. Sometimes he likes to spice it up with a tie.  I will never comprehend why the guys are friends with Vick the Dick.

     “I see you found my secret stasssh.” The way he overstates the "S" makes me want to vomit.

     “It looked more like one bottle, than a stash.” I reply dryly.

      “You’re funny Kim. You know all you gotta do is ask, if you want a taste.” He says winking.

BARF. 

     “Uh, I’m good. It’s all yours.”

       I start to walk over to Cam and Zoe, but Vick the Dick pulls me back.

     “Hey, where you going so fast?? Now that you found it, why don’t you have a drink with me??”

     I’m about to say hell no, and that I’d rather go start on my 10 page essay due next week for my criminal justice class than drink with him, but I’m interrupted by his voice.

    Ray barges in the door as if he is ready to beat the crap out of someone and my heart begins to race uncontrollably. His eyes are blood shot red and swollen, his cheeks look as though he has applied some blush on them, and I wonder if he’s actually been crying. The party goes dead silent. I’m afraid to even move.

     “You alright buddy?” Ryan asks.

      “Don’t ask, man, don’t ask.”

     Ray goes to his room, and slams the door shut.

      “I got this. Excuse me sweetie, I’ll take a rain check on that drink.” Vick the Dick says before he disappears to Ray’s room.

      “I’ll join you” Ryan adds.

     I need answers, my brain is asking for them. So I do the most logical thing, and go to the bathroom right next to Ray’s room even though I don’t really have to go. I place my ear against the cold white wall and try to spy on their conversation, but only hear bits and pieces.

    “ … messing around…dude… fuck him up..”

     “…drama. I’m done...”

     “…leaving. morning…”

     I hear the door slam open. I’m frozen and don’t know what to do. The logical part of my brain tells me to stay put and forget that I heard anything. Stay put, stay put, and enjoy the rest of the party. But the stupid part of my brain tells me to run after him, plead for him to tell me all about it, and to give us another chance. Now that it seems evil bitch is out of the picture, this is my chance. I wait 2 more minutes and leave the bathroom.

      I spot Zoe making a drink in the kitchen and whisper in her ear, “Ok, don’t hate me, but I have to leave.”

     “Where are you going? You’re not going where I think you’re going, right?”

     I don’t answer. I just look at her with guilt spread across my face like butter.

     “Kimmie, don’t. I think he just needs to be alone right now.”

I try to respond, but nothing comes out of mouth. Eventually I manage to say,

     “I’m sorry Zoe, I have to.”

I leave before she can say anything else.

     I nearly run outside, and see Ray making his way to the parking lot. It’s now, or never. I swallow hard. I can do this, I can do this. But before I can scream his name, I see a short blonde haired girl run up to him. She is wearing gym clothes complete with sneakers, black leggings, and a red loose tank top.  She tries to catch her breath when she stops as if she has just run a marathon. By the look of urgency on her face, I know immediately that I have just met evil bitch. Out of panic, I squat down behind the nearest bush and don’t dare to even breathe.

     “Ray, what has gotten into you?? Did you seriously go beat Brad up??”

     “What the fuck was I supposed to do Sarah?? I wasn’t going to let that asshole get away with that.”

     “You’re unbelievable, you know that?? Brad and I never did anything, ok?? I made it up!”

     “Why the hell would you make something like that up??”

     “I don’t know, ok. I’m so frustrated. Do you know what it’s like knowing that you’re going to the same school as your gorgeous ex-girlfriend?? It’s seriously driving me nuts thinking of the two of you hanging out at the same place, and getting back together. I wanted to get a rise out of you. I..” She starts sobbing before she can continue.

     Through the tiny hole in the bushes, I can see Ray put his arms around evil bitch, trying to soothe her.

     “Look at me.” I cringe at the familiarity of his words.

     “Kimberly means nothing to me ok, she never did. It was just a fling; you are so much more than that. You are what I want. Ok?”

     “Really?”

     “Does this prove it?”

     I close my eyes because I know what’s happening. I put my head in between my legs and do my best to hold back my tears until I know for sure that they have left. When parking lot grows silent, I begin to sob uncontrollably. I want to run away. I want to be anywhere but here right now. I think that if someone came over and kicked me in the stomach three times, punched me in the face, and spit on me, it would hurt less than the pain that fills my whole body right now. Crying behind a bush is not exactly how I thought this night would end.

     “Kim? Is that you?” I hear a familiar male voice ask.

I want to die when I realize it’s Vick the Dick.

     “What are you doing out here?? Are you crying??”

     “No, I’m just enjoying the texture of this lovely bush, what does it look like I’m doing?”

     He squats down next to me, and my sobbing gets worse. I’m unsure if my tears are for Ray at this point, or because of the fact that Vick the Dick appears to be the only one to notice me on this dreadful night.

     “Get up beautiful. Let me help make your night better.”

     “No thanks, I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

     “Come on, the party hasn’t even started yet.”

     “I really do not want to be around people right now. Party is over for me.”

     “So then let’s make it a smaller party, and continue at your place. Look what I snagged for us.”

     He opens up his coat and reveals the bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet. Vick the Dick is the last person on earth I want to be with right now, but I desperately need a drink, I need to forget.

   “Whadda ya say?”

    I hesitate briefly before I respond, “Why not.”

     It’s times like these when I’m grateful for everyone I’ve encountered in my life that have inspired my writing—most especially, the Ray's and Vick the Dick’s. It's funny the language we can create from mere experience. It’s funny how nonfiction can subconsciously creep into our fictitious words.

The moment

About a week and a half ago, my sister fell from the attic and into our second floor bathroom (yes, you can’t make this stuff up), and Jon broke his shoulder playing hockey—all in the same day.

It started off as any other Sunday afternoon. I woke up somewhat late, went to church, and had lunch with my mom, sisters, and nephews.  I had a plan—finish my paper that I procrastinated all weekend (typical), in time to go to Jon’s hockey game around 5. But alas, when I realized it was taking me an hour to finish one paragraph, I told Jon that I was sorry, but wouldn’t be able to make it to his game.  Being responsible can be very lame.

 

And so, the day went on…incredibly and miserably slow. I stared at my computer screen clueless and frustrated, often minimizing Word to pay attention to more important things (Facebook).  Around 4ish my sister came into my room and began rummaging my closet, whining that she needed a Halloween costume. I barely looked up from my computer, I just mumbled something like, “I have nothing, trying to write a paper!” She left my room, and shortly after, I heard her pushing boxes out of her way in the attic. I shook my head, and continued to be on facebook, I mean, write my paper.  As soon as I sort of got my act together and started to get a clue as to what would make this paper not suck and fail me out of grad school, I heard an awful awful noise.  It sounded as if the entire attic had fallen to the floor, piece by piece, nail by nail. BOOM.  Pause. BOOM BOOM BOOM. I froze.  “Noriks (my nickname for her)… are you ok??” All I could make out was a faint and teary “Ow.” I got up from my bed panicked and ran to scene of the crime fearing what I would find. I could foresee this was going to be bad.  I pictured her falling from the ladder that led to the attic and onto the hard wood floor. I swallowed hard. And then I saw it. My sister’s leg hanging from a hole in our bathroom ceiling.

After she managed to squeeze herself out of the hole, I stood in the bathroom and stared at the hole dazed.  I mean, how exactly does one fall from one floor and into another? And how often?  My sister didn’t really understand either. And neither did my mom when she ran up the stairs only to find her bathroom ceiling was now nicely decorated with a view of the attic. No one who we now tell the story to get it either. The mysterious haunted loony attic and the girl that fell out of it-DUN DUN DUN. We concluded that perhaps she had stepped on an unstable part of the attic floor, which led to her fall. After all the chaos, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I felt terrible for doing so, but even she couldn’t keep it in after she iced her leg. My mom got mad at me for laughing, but the next day, she cracked up hysterically at the thought of it. And really, wouldn’t you?

Evidence

 Literally 20 minutes after the incident, I got a text from Jon. Paraphrased it said something like this: “Babe I just wanted to let you know I’m at the hospital, I got hit and injured my shoulder pretty bad at my game so I’m getting scans done. But don’t worry I’ll be ok. I’ll talk to you as soon as I can, I love you.” I just stared at the screen shocked, my heart  feeling like it was out of my body and outside sprinting on the street somewhere, my lunch feeling like it was coming back to remind me. Immediately my brain rushed with terrified thoughts—Is he going to be alright?? Is it severe?? Will his shoulder be forever injured?? And then I thought—What did I say to him last night before he left?? Did I say I love you?? I was supposed to be at the game! I felt helpless, wanting more than anything to turn back time, and punch whoever hit him in the face ( I know, real mature).  I shut my computer, knowing I wouldn’t be finishing my paper anytime soon, and that a long night was ahead of me. I went downstairs, told my mom what happened, and sat close to her for a while wanting to feel safe and comforted. She told me she was sure it was just something minor, and that everything would be ok. I did my best to shrug off the bad and scary thoughts, and took her word for it.

Later that night, Jon broke the news that he was ok, but had suffered a minor concussion, broke his left shoulder, and needed to be in a sling for the next 6-8 weeks—no work, no driving, no nothing but sitting at home and healing. I felt his pain as if it were my own, though he told me was fine.  And despite the fact that the worst was over, I still felt helpless.

The next day I reflected on my crazy day, and thought about the moment. The moment that I heard the BOOM BOOM, the moment that I received Jon’s terrible text.  The moment that I felt my life alter in a span of 5 seconds. The moment I found someone I love in pain—in danger.  Your day can start off perfectly normal, and end tragically—in that moment. Fortunately, I was lucky. My sister and I look back at her accident and laugh, her minor leg injury is gone. Jon is still in a sling and can’t do much of anything except eat lots of candy and watch a lot of T.V , but in a couple more weeks, I know he will be ok.  

So, kiss the one you love a little longer—whether it be your boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, mom/dad, daughter/son, sister/brother, squeeze them even tighter, tell them you love them for the 100^th time—because some aren’t so lucky. For some, the moment can last a lifetime.

Everyone should fall in love and have babies

Everyone should fall in love and have babies, it’s a fact-it’s my fact.

My friends often make fun of me because my question to them after meeting a potential boyfriend/girlfriend for the first time is always, “Are you in love??” “Are you going to get married and have babies??”

Recently, more than ever, I’ve discovered how truly fabulous it is to fall in love- really fall, heard first, in love.  A few weeks ago, I witnessed a new guy walk into my friend’s life-I mean he literally walked right up to her at the bar in epic form. I teased her that it was like watching a movie.  A group of us girls were dancing in a circle—music blaring, arms in the air, drink in hand, life a la mode.  Out of nowhere, a guy from the other side of the bar starts to slowly make his way to our end.  It was as if the whole bar went blurry except for my friend standing in the middle of us. He was a man on a mission, desperately setting out to beat everyone to the finish line and claim his prize. And then he arrived, looked right into her eyes and said, “Can I buy you drink?” We all watched him whisk her away in awe. And then they fell in love, naturally. (I’m currently planning the wedding).

But it was her reaction, her bubbly and giddy attitude that made me smile and think. It’s amazing how one person can alter your life and change your way of thinking. One day you’re strangers, the next you’re setting a date. I see it every day. I see my parents in love for almost 30 years. I see my sister’s in love and happily married. I see strangers in the mall, grocery store, movies, in love. And they all have that same look on their faces, the dazzled look that tells you that they don’t know how they got so lucky to have met their soulmate.

Not only do I see it everywhere, I live it. Before I met my boyfriend, Jon, I was a bitter girl jaded by past relationships, who hated everyone and their stupid love story. It’s not real, it won’t last, I hate them, I thought often. I was convinced that “my one” had gotten run over by a bus on his way to me, and I was SOL.  Jon didn’t walk into my life as dramatically as my friend’s future husband did, and he didn’t magically turn my life into rainbows and butterflies. But he does make me want to be a better person—to be a little less Debbie downer and more of a little Mary sunshine.  I think it’s because I see the best version of myself when I’m around him—like an HDTV version that kicks regular T.V’s butt. Or maybe it’s because he’s the only one who thinks I’m funny. I haven’t decided yet.

Sometimes it’s easy to give up on finding love because no one seems good enough; no one seems to fit right with you.  But to find it, to find your partner in life who doesn’t care what you look like after getting two hours of sleep, doesn’t judge you for eating your feelings on a bad day, and doesn’t mind that it takes you 10 times before you get the joke —is worth taking a shot at. Fall in love.  Fall hard. And have some babies. 

A new era: "Just facebook me"

Click. Post. Like. Comment. Poke. Repeat.

     It has come to my attention that just about everyone has a facebook. Seriously, search for your mom and you will probably find her facebook page. And beware if you don’t have one, because if you don’t, you are likely to be considered “weird.”
    
     Yes I will admit it, I am a facebook addict and should probably look into rehab—but there is one question that continues to boggle my mind on a regular basis: What is it that attracts so many people to facebook anyway? People spend half of their day updating their status, posting comments on friend walls, and uploading pictures to put up on facebook.  The other half of the day is spent talking about facebook, “Today on my newsfeed…” is a popular one, or my favorite, “Did you see that her relationship status says single now?”   What is the purpose? Are we that interested in other people’s lives? Or is it the thrill of receiving a notification, “Sally posted on your wall”, or, “Sally likes your status.” Perhaps facebook gives people the social acceptance they are anxiously seeking.
    
     Whatever it is, I hate Mark Zuckerburg, the founder of facebook, for figuring it out. I mean, the man is literally set for life. He makes people who are jobless after going through 4 years of college wonder, “What am I doing wrong??” Bastard, I mean, Zuckerburg, who was a sophomore at Harvard (figures) at the time, originally intended for membership to be limited to Harvard students. Soon however, it expanded to include anyone older than 12, and is now the most popular social networking site in the (freaking) world.  In 2010, the company announced that it was serving-- brace yourself…500 million users around the world. I don’t think my brain even has the capacity of imagining that many people. And it’s not only people either; lately I’ve found that everywhere I go-- restaurant, library, grocery store, and school, I’m being told to “check us out on facebook.” Popular businesses, companies, and even schools have begun to create facebook pages in order to reach out to their customers and students.

      Because of its rapid popularity, facebook is now slowly overtaking the lives of countless people, young to old, and destroying the nature of social communication. Instead of initiating conversations with others, we are now sending friend requests in its place. Whatever happened to the days of email, letters, or dun dun dun…a call on the telephone?
    
     And now it’s not just friendships, many relationships have formed through facebook as well (How…romantic?). But in retrospect, why shouldn’t they? Facebook makes it all too easy. I mean, why go on a date when you can just get to know each other through Facebook’s newest addition, “Facebook chat”, becoming closer with each “Haha” , “LOL” , and smiley face. And why call your partner when you can just leave a romantic post on their wall for the world to see?  Just accept it, your relationship just doesn’t mean much unless it’s Facebook, “In a relationship” official. The extreme informality between people these days is concerning and arguably a little sad. Now, the opportunity to dodge an actual physical face to face conversation with another human being is particularly doable.  “Just Facebook me” was a recent pick up line I heard not too long ago, I just shook my head and wondered what had become of the world.  
         
     Facebook is a way in which you can let others know what is going on in your daily life. And for some, every second of your daily life. Example, “Sally Joe is taking a shower.” Two minutes later: “Sally Joe just got out of the shower.” Three minutes later, “Sally Joe is watching a movie.” Does anyone really care?? Regardless, facebook is proven to lead to jealousy and competition (and is that secretly what our goal is in the first place—make everyone jealous that our lives are better than the rest?).  And by proven, I mean me. The real issue is how much of what a person is writing and posting on facebook is consistent to what their actually doing.  Their status can read, “Having the time of my life!” when in actuality, they are sitting at home doing essentially nothing at all.  Likewise, there is really no way of telling how accurate a person’s Facebook pictures are under an album entitled “Best Weekend Ever!” if they spent the entire time taking pictures for the intention of putting them up on facebook for others to see.

     Facebook allows you the opportunity to become whoever you want to be, real or fake. You can post pictures from when you were 20 pounds lighter, and you can make your life sound as extravagant as you please through your clever facebook statuses(even if you are painfully awkward in real life).  In simpler terms, it is all a potential lie. Facebook can be truly deceiving, and the sucker gets me every time. Sigh.

     Don’t get me wrong, facebook is a great site to use to communicate with friends and family, but come on people, it shouldn’t overtake your life. People should at least try to only use facebook in their spare time and not let it interfere with their work, studies, or extracurricular activities. It is likely that because some spend so much time behind their computer screens browsing on their facebook page, soon they will lose sight of what really matters in their lives.  Perhaps it would be wise to spend less time telling others about what we’re doing, and more time actually doing them. 

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