I thought I had successfully eliminated all the crazies from my Facebook feed by not friending people I don’t know in real life. And since I pride myself on never hanging out with anyone who seems weird in a serial-killer, Westboro Baptist Church, or David Duke-kind of way, I thought I could sit back, relax, and enjoy the cute toddler photos.
Okay, that sounded creepy. Let me re-phrase. I thought I could sit back and enjoy photos of my friends’ kids (kids that are mostly toddlers because once those kids reach the teen years, the adorability factor drops and there isn’t much to post except for the videos of shouting matches.)
But I digress. It turns out I thought wrong. It turns out I have two crazies on my newsfeed.
I’ve known Crazy #1 since the time we both obsessed over Wham and blackheads in our skin. Yes, the George Michael Wham. And now that I’ve just dated myself, let me go on. I haven’t spoken to this person in over fifteen years but since our past adolescent connection was too difficult for my inner adolescent to ignore, I sent her a friend request as soon as she joined Facebook a few years ago.
Now I am debating whether I should un-friend her or continue to enjoy the exercise my eyes get when I roll them reading her posts.
She is both very opinionated and passionate about certain political issues. And most of her passion lies way to the right of mine. Yet that’s not what earned her the crazy label. It’s how she expresses that passion. The words in her posts – wait, even the letters! – alternate between caps and lowercase like they’ve been DRINking cachaça beFORE theY DEcided to FORM sentencES. See what I just did there?
This one is a recent acquaintance. I met him while on an expat assignment to a country that’s not proving to be the world’s darling at the moment. After I left that country I promptly forgot about Crazy #2 but when he sent me a friend request I agreed. Why not, I thought?
Now I know why not. For the past several months Crazy #2 has been weaving elaborate theories on how his ex-wife, her alleged lover, the CIA, the FBI, his wife’s country’s intelligence services, the Martians, and the little people who live under the roots of birch trees have all conspired to defraud him. He posts photos of women with whom he apparently had a lot of sex and then proceeds to describe that sex in 50-Shades-of-Grey details. He puts up pictures of both his friends and foes and then tells the world about how they amass capital, avoid taxes, and do drugs. And after he’s done all that, he tags his teenage son in those posts — while at the same time calling his ex-wife (and the mother of his son) a working girl.
I know I should erase the guy from the list of my Facebook friends but I am hooked. This is like a storyline for a novel, inside into a character, and a thriller-in-the-making — all in one. How can I stop? It’s research.