I’m guessing that all of you who have a Facebook account have created your 60 second commemorative movie and uploaded it to your page for all to admire?
I did mine today; and it was everything I expected to see.
I’ve been off line for the last few days as some dick from the water board chopped through our telephone cable, and it’s taken this for me to realise how much I rely on broadband access for…, well pretty much everything really. Interaction, education, information, conversation, shopping, food – shit, the shock of having to go out to shop for milk was practically overwhelming!
To be honest, I realised that I access the great outdoors about as much as someone doing time in prison, and whilst my quarters may be a tad more comfortable than the average Holloway cell, I realise that this is no way to live a life.
That said, just as I was getting geared up to getting out there and making my presence known, that little blue kiss curl on my modem, suddenly flickered, winked then glowed, and I was back on line, and like the addict that I am, I jumped on that lifeline like Lee Ryan onto, well, anyone with a pulse.
Then, today, I dared to look at my Facebook movie. And I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I tell you that it is so pathetic, I would rather stick my tits in a mangle than upload it online.
Of course I’ve looked at everyone else’s, and have born witness to their gradual but steadily upward evolution over the last decade. The achievements, the joys, the kids, the houses, some challenges I guess, but for the most part everyone, from what I can tell, has lived an active, successful, happy ten years overall.
Mine? Mine is testament to a life lived small and scared, and features the things I used to do, the friends I have driven away, the people who have probably forgotten that I exist, and a montage of witty but cynical comments, and the multitude of photographs of cakes in lieu of snaps of holidays, gatherings with family/friends, and career triumphs. And the minor triumphs I have achieved? I didn’t share them because I was too shy/afraid to blow my own trumpet plus, I’m paranoid about people knowing my business.
And reading about the loss of Philip Seymour Hoffman and seeing all of his famous friends, it made me wonder how many of them were actually in his life. I have more ‘friends’ than I actually want on paper, but only see a fraction of them face to face. Was it the same for him? I know how depression and illness separates the wheat from the chaff as far as real friendship is concern, and also accept that pushing people away sometimes means they stay away, so I expect that, like me he was very, very lonely. But hell, if I top myself, there’ll be plenty of popular, happy folk with stonking Facebook movies showing up to put me in the ground, no doubt!
Thanks guys, you rock! NOT.
Then, on seeing Sheldon Cooper snogging the face of Amy Farrah Fowler for the very first time, and I was torn between finding it touching, amusing and downright depressing. I haven’t been kissed for about FOUR YEARS, and I have to ask, why is some (fictional) weedy, emotionally autistic, scifi geek and his long suffering, frumpy bird getting more action than me?!
The final straw was when I saw this clip of John Berlin begging the gods of Facebook for his dead son’s movie, which filled me with all kinds of emotion.
And I asked myself; if I croak tomorrow, would I want MY family to see this pathetic, 60 second ‘tribute’ to the last 10 years of my life, or am I going to make the next 10 year worth the oxygen that I take from this planet?
So I’m going to go and try and make it the latter happen.
I want there to be a point to my existence. I want to be of use. I want to find my clan. I want my cottage by the sea. I want to love and be loved in return.
And yes, I want to be kissed with tenderness and passion. Preferably by another human being. Male, please, ideally.
Quite how I’m going to turn things around to such an extent I’m not sure, but I’m coming off Facebook for Lent, limiting my time on the internet and have just volunteered to do some work for a charity.
And whilst I still don’t know the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything (unless it really is 42), I do know I won’t find it sat on my arse, terrified in a South London flat, waiting until God deems that it’s OK for me to die.
Onwards and upwards.