Rehab.

What is it with Facebook?

I just finished a Facebook detox for two weeks. I didn't have anything to do with Facebook for that long. That is a quite amazing feat, knowing me. I honestly didn't know if I could do it. It really is the most pathetic thing. I never realized how sad it is to spend hours on a single site, only to find out what other people are doing. Who they're in a relationship with. Who went to that party. Who is on his side or her side. It's a complete violation of privacy. Suddenly everyone knows you're cheating on your boyfriend, and they're all bashing you, via wall posts, of course. Everyone knows you passed out, bare ass, in the bathroom at that party and cracked your skull on the toilet bowl, because he took a picture of you on his phone and uploaded it to Facebook no less than thirty seconds after it happened. Ten minutes later, nineteen people have liked it. The next Monday, you have to walk around school hiding your face because everyone saw that picture of you on Facebook, and you can't bear all the stares and laughter, and people patting you on the back uttering 'champ'.

Or that time when you were dropping your brother's friend off at his house, because your brother lost his license. You were too busy flirting with him and didn't notice a kid run in front of the car, and you knocked him over. You got out too see if he's okay, and luckily he's a tough kid and just suffered some scraped knees, and ran off. When you got home and went on Facebook, you noticed your brother's friend had updated his status saying '...just experienced a hit and run, with Katie being the hitter and a 5 year old being the hittee.' It already had forty-seven comments of 'what?!' and 'holy shit! She killed a kid?' Of course it got blown out of proportion. It's not like you can do anything about it though. He was always an asshole.

Or how about when you had a nasty breakup with your boyfriend, and he ended up removing and blocking you on Facebook. He posted nude pictures of you on everyone's wall, to get revenge for your bitchiness. Chances are you'll never be able to leave the house again without having a paper bag over you head. You knew you never should have posed for him naked, just so he could jack off to them when he's feeling lonely. Your implants and platinum hair helped.

Maybe I'm getting carried away, but shit like this happens.

And it all starts with life revolving around a stupid site called Facebook.

Brb, I'm going to go check if I have any notifications.

Here we go again...

I sometimes honestly don't understand you at all.

I know your heart is in the right place.

I know you can be extremely sweet.

I know you're capable of making me feel special.

I know you don't intend to upset me.

It's the part where you don't really try that pisses me right off.

Some things you should just know, and I shouldn't be the one to always have to tell you.

You should be able to realize your actions and think about how I might be feeling on what you decided.

When I act a certain way, you should at least be able to tell that there's something wrong.

There are bare minimal requirements, which somehow don't seem to occur to you.

It's not as if I'm asking the world.

Just a little observation.

I'm here too.

[The Pitiful Mind]

The world is an inescapable prison.

All the human soul really aches for is a significant other to be connected to our own.

It is the pain of the realization that this is impossible that kills.

The only thing entirely necessary to fulfill the heart's desire and life's purpose is to be loved.

We dart around, from person to person, to try and grasp that feeling, to trick ourselves into believing that if we search hard enough, life will finally be complete.

The unnaturally warm feeling one receives from their fingertips merely grazing the surface, just out of reach.

And then falling, back to square one.

Then all those complications of self-loathing begin to intensify.

The welling feeling of blame upon oneself, because there is no one else closer to the heart to play a scapegoat.

The shed tears, the dubbing oneself as a failure.

We begin to search for someone, anyone, to help us put our feet on the ground again.

Repeat.

Sadly, we only have the apathetic expanse of the internet to document our human condition.