Over The Pylon

Babies will ruin your life. But at least we appreciate diversity around here.

We all have those friends. Those friends who feel the need to make sure all of us are aware of their life and how they are living it. Those who feel like social media like Twitter and Facebook were created for the sole purpose of sharing their comings and goings. I can’t speak for Twitter but I did see The Social Network. Facebook was created so Mark Zuckerberg could crush some Harvard ass. It was not invented for you to fill up my news feed with posts of your toes in ocean water (we don’t care), what you had for breakfast (we REALLY don’t care), or use Twitter hashtags (die).

Things that I significantly don’t care about: your pets, your workout, your stress, how your ex-wife screwed someone, how you screwed someone, how you screwed your ex-wife, how your ex-wife screwed your pet, etc etc ad nauseum.

One photo of your vacation? Awesome. I’m happy to see what my friends are up to. Glad you got away from the rat race! Forty-seven photos of the same damn thing from different angles? Yeah…. no. Last time I checked a vacation was a good opportunity to disconnect the digital umbilical cord and you know, vacate (is that the word for the verb “to vacation”? I’m going to assume so), unless you are single and giving me photographic proof that Amy Schumer got blasted at your pig roast and ended up naked in your hot tub. That you are free and encouraged to photograph as many times as you can. Set the shutter speed to “lightning fast”. I’m not a photographer, but that’s a setting, right? Otherwise, countless photos of you, you and your wife, you and your wife and your inlaws, etc aren’t doing the internet right. And your kids? Oh, your kids. Let’s chat about those, shall we?

I will own that I do not have children yet. I will also own that I am sort of on the fence about having children at all. I am congratulatory to my friends that do when they are born. But at some point, the statute of limitations about the honor of having unprotected sex runs out. Why should we celebrate the permanent remnants of your happy fun time? Last I checked the friend of mine who got the clap after banging out a slampiece didn’t get a “like” under the picture of his ultrasound. Children are cute, I get it. A few pictures here and there to celebrate milestones? Fantastic. I’m happy to share in the watershed moments of my friends and family. Junior graduated from college? That’s terrific. I’ll send him a gift card to Starbucks. Junior said unintelligible words masquerading as speech captured by his slapnuts father on video? Yeah, gonna have to pass.

Children by nature are awful creatures. They tear up everything they come in contact with, bleed you dry financially, and require hot Swedish nannys to tend to their needs and issues, thus making married life more than a little difficult. Perhaps the overshare of children-focused things isn’t a celebration at all. It’s the world’s largest group-therapy session. “My life is awful and my friends with children can commiserate with me. And those assholes who don’t have children should share in my pain. Share in it when you’re out doing cool things and not Facebooking. SHARE IT! SHARE IT ALL THE WAY TO HELL!” That has to be the refrain of those who overshare 900 photos of Junior looking for an Easter egg in the backyard of a house that is triple mortgaged as I drink Kalik on a Caribbean beach.

And that overshare is the problem. Have some self-control. Do you open up a bag of Fudge Stripes (the world’s best cookie) and tear through that sumbitch in 8 seconds flat like a dragon with a hemorrhoid? Of course not. You savor them. Have one, maybe two, a glass of milk, and you have three and three-quarter trays left to enjoy. Same goes for whatever you choose to post on social media. One picture? A witty status? Something infinitely frustrating? Rock and roll. That’s what it’s for. Just try to remember though that a picture’s worth a thousand words. A bunch of them are still worth 1000 words, most of them profanity directed at your gene pool. A witty status isn’t witty when you’ve posted some iteration of it (good or bad) for the last 342 days. Something is frustrating? Fix it or shut up about it.

Oversharing speaks volumes to the moral compass of America. If one-quarter pound beef patty is good, then a double quarter-pounder must be amazing. I am just counting down the days until they put eight quarter pounders on a lard infused bun, covered in bacon, and extra mayo. This sort of gluttony is what made Abercrombie only want to market to stick figures, it’s what made Southwest charge you more when your asscheek bleeds over into the space of the person next to you reading over their Skymall and looking at shitty gifts that no one really buys, and it’s why you suck. In the irony of all ironies, in trying to lord over your friends your accomplishments of climbing on an airplaine, signing a hotel check in form, or having unprotected sex, you actually make me quite happy that my life is what it is. I don’t have time to hashtag a photo of my offspring shoving oatmeal into their sister’s ear because I’m living life. You should perhaps try it some time, and then let me know how it goes. On Facebook. With hashtags. Asshole.

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