The Social Cookie: A Day in the Life of a Compulsive Facebook Checker

As of this writing I’ve been married almost five months and have owned a home and mortgage a bit longer. Almost every morning I follow the same routine. I wake up when I get up, about 5:30 AM. Around 6:20 I put on pants and a seasonably appropriate shirt to let my wife out of the driveway, since she leaves for work a lot earlier than I do and I’m usually parked behind her. I take my meds and eat breakfast about 7, hop in the shower at 7:30, and then get ready to leave for work.

In-between these familiar steps I’m usually spending alone time in my “mancave,” and as much as I try to make good use out of it, I find myself doing a lot of Facebook checking.

This morning, 5:30 AM or thereabouts, I was playing around on Amazon and decided to impulse buy one of my favorite shameless stupid comedies, Booty Call, on DVD. My wife and I each budget ourselves $100 spending money a month and I had some gift card cash credited on my account. The “Bootiest Edition” of Booty Call was six bucks (not including shipping…I regret dropping Prime) so altogether there wasn’t much debate involved in this purchase. Add to shopping cart, proceed to checkout, boom, expecting it on Thursday.

Then on the receipt page I saw a button to ‘Share’ my recent purchase on Facebook. “Hey, my ‘Friends’ might get a kick out of this,” I thought to myself. “It’s Booty Call – the ‘Bootiest’ Edition! Someone will smile.” I clicked the button and sure enough, the evidence appeared on my Timeline.

I circled the block to let my wife out of the driveway. I took my pills and ate my cereal. I showered. Then I drifted back to Facebook, where I discovered that no one had ‘liked’ or commented on my choice in 90’s sex comedy. “Maybe most of my common associates are still waking up,” I thought.

Onward to work. Now the national weather service has been going crazy over a terrible Winter hellstorm that’s due to slam into the east coast over the weekend. In my area the local forecasting has been wildly inconsistent with what we’re supposed to get, as local forecasts are wont to do. Again, my attention returned to Facebook. I figured the upcoming annual apocalypse would be a lively topic for discussion, so I posted a status update:

An hour or so went by, and in that time my Facebook friends had this to say about the circumstances surrounding our weather: nothing. Not a damned thing. Huh. Alright. Well hey, did you know about this?

Four hours passed. No one cared. Not about Booty Call, the weather, Bad Santa 2, or any of it. I posted a link to a YouTube clip that was also ignored, and then circled back around to the winter storm, which in my area is slated to be not much of a winter storm at all.

I kept checking, and checking, and…nothing. I realize that what I am presenting here is a relatively dull Timeline. All the same, I started growing anxious. Questions and worries began running through my mind, the usual kind I put up with as a chronic anxiety sufferer. “Am I really that boring?” “Are any of these people interested in me at all?” “Why do I feel like I’m talking to myself in an empty room?”

This is what it ultimately came down to though, and the point I’m getting at. It’s about, and it always has been about, the red numbers.

When I see that little globe go active in the upper right-hand corner, I get excited, elated, impatient to click on it and reveal what it has to tell me. There are two driving forces at work here. The first one is the obvious notion that someone paid attention to me, taking a few seconds out of their waking hours to click ‘Like’ or type a short sentence. The other is that the little globe is, in essence, a mystery prize box. Sometimes that prize is a freemium game request for a nail or a jellybean, but in other cases, if I’m lucky…

Those red numbers provide a brief, fleeting dopamine kick to my brain, and although the pleasure only lasts a second or two, I feel a compulsive need to collect more of them. To me that is the essence of the game, and the ultimate goal of owning a Facebook account. More red numbers means more little pleasure buzzes, and thus my mission is to collect more of them.

Facebook is providing its users with the easiest means of tapping the brain’s reward system as a free service. The problem is that when one comes to rely on that easy dopamine cookie and it stops being delivered, the natural response is to either try harder or get frustrated. The reason I shared Booty Call and jokes about the weather with everyone was the “throw against the wall until something sticks” principle. At some point there has to be solace in the mess.

Meanwhile, Facebook uses the hunt for the red numbers to soak up advertising revenue alongside their other infamous business venture, data mining. On the user end I’m the rat in the cage, hungry but ignoring the food dispenser over the pleasure button.

What’s interesting to me is that I initially came to theorize all this on my own after a lot of soul searching and self reflection. But a random Google search into the matter surprised me. It turns out that studies have been conducted into this very matter and have drawn the same conclusions—this time by people much smarter and more credible than myself. Moreover, Facebook can have rather nasty afflictions on the brain and brain chemistry. Modern psychology is not blind to the Facebook dopamine cookie jar.

With all this in mind, why do I continue subjecting myself to it?

The truth is that I am considering deactivating my account and walking away, and I have been for some time. But it’s a difficult step to take, and not just because of the red numbers. There are people on my friend list I actually talk to—strange, I know—and Facebook is my only means of communication with many of them. Another issue is that since the wedding, the photos, name sharing, new relatives and such means that my Facebook account isn’t really mine alone anymore. Just like real life, I’m married in the virtual world as well.

I’m done now.

I never got my red numbers.

Hey, Hey, You, You…

I got followed by Avril Lavigne on Twitter the other week.

I was a bit confused. I said to myself, “I’m a no name, faceless guy from South Carolina who only tweets about movies and video games. Why would Avril Lavigne be interested in ME?” Then I got excited, you know, and I followed her back.

Then one glance revealed that it wasn’t the real Avril Lavigne. The real Avril Lavigne has a verified account that happens to have the same profile picture up as not-Avril Lavigne. So I ended up unfollowing not-Avril and saying to myself, “Fuck this.”

It was like being shot out of the sky. I don’t really listen to Avril except when she’s being replayed on Pop2k, but for that one moment before I was cut off at the knees, I was special. Avril was following me…

Duggar, Dunham, Jenner…and Palin.

As someone who has been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I do not know why I choose to indulge in social media while giving the slightest damn about my own mental health. When faced with this question I tell myself, “It’s because you can’t keep in touch with your friends otherwise, Phil.” While there is a semblance of truth to that, the reality is that Facebook and its bastard spawn only drive me closer to madness every time I compulsively log in and lurk around the political, fiscal, social, conservative and liberal pissing contests being aimed around on data mining platforms that are only safe and secure when its users post anecdotes about their cats.

Within the past week my obvious masochism has led to me to learn what a sampling of 350,000,000 people within the Earth’s population think about Caitlyn Jenner, Josh Duggar, and as of this morning, Lena Dunham and some inflections she apparently imposed on her own sister – a story that was first brought to me by Alaskan wonder Sarah Palin, reporting on words from her daughter, bastion of wisdom Bristol. It was a trending topic on Facebook’s righthand sidebar.

Opinions don’t drive me to the public forum unless I strongly believe they are wrong. To put it in the parlance of the popular metaphor, I drag my proverbial soapbox out of my pants when assholes are at their smelliest. In the case of the Conservative/Liberal Civil War that’s pitting brother against brother on an hourly basis, there are opinions and then there is my own opinion.

I’ve already introduced a lot to sort out here. I’ll begin with the simplest.

Caitlyn Jenner is a woman. It doesn’t matter that Caitlyn used to be a man named Bruce. This is because of how the transgendered individual operates within and outside of themselves. It is a physical, mental, biological, spiritual, psychological and discomforting feeling that one was not born in their correct physiological body. Like homosexuality, it is not a choice. A man does not wake up and decide to put on a dress and/or later take estrogen and/or have his penis surgically inverted into a vagina, nor does a woman wake up with the same random hair. This is a process that begins at birth, either out of an inward sense that corrections need to be made, or emerging from the womb as a hermaphrodite and being faced with picking one physical gender over the other.

In other words, it’s about science and nature.

Though trans people are cultivated by a scientific process, there are those among our population who don’t adhere to basic scientific facts. The same people who will only accept that the Earth is six thousand literal years old and was created in six literal days are not going to believe science when it says that transgendered individuals are scientific fact. One cannot go from wading safely in the indoor heated shallow end to landing face first in the cold, outdoor deep end.

This bothers me. But what bothers me even more is the quickness of the Judeo-Christian majority to forgive Josh Duggar for putting his hands on his little sisters, and in the same breath condemn Caitlyn Jenner, who transitioned into a woman but does not have the same history of molesting children. I have seen the Christian community kiss Josh’s ass, give him hugs, Tweet about the nature of forgiveness and God’s love and footnote it with a collective shrug of “boys will be boys.” Meanwhile, Caitlyn is the sign of the End Times, the seven year Tribulation and New Sodom rising up from a pile of ash to engulf America in raw immorality.

This was to be my second ‘level’ of complication within this cathartic clusterfuck, but it’s really no more difficult than the first topic because there is a clear distinction here: Caitlyn Jenner found comfort by embracing her femininity; Josh Duggar found comfort by feeling up small children in their sleep. That is not “boys will be boys.” At fourteen you know what you are fucking doing when it comes to bad touch even if your frontal lobes haven’t shaped your finalized personality matrix.

You know, or you should know, even if you belong to a fundamentalist sect/cult of Christianity that treats women like property and delegates their roles to baby factories and toys for their future husbands. I’m digressing into a nature vs. nurture argument regarding the Quiverfull Movement here, but even someone raised in a nuthouse like that should have some semblance of rationality. I’m not letting Duggar off the hook. To anyone who is not a complete asshole, hands stay off children even if those children are girls viewed by the family cult as second class citizens.

TLC, the subject of a future post I am certain, has canceled 19 Kids and Counting over the scandal, a year after striking Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo off the schedule, again due to molestation allegations. I’d like to be optimistic and believe that TLC will eventually drop all its culturally devoid reality geek shows and return to being owned by NASA as The Learning Channel, but we’ve a long way through the wilderness yet.

But onto Lena Dunham.

Well, let me catch my breath. When I spend my entire early morning turning “whats” and “what ifs” over in my head on the same day I have to report to work, that’s an early sign I need to take a mental health day, sit on the front porch with a bottle of flavored water and stare reflectively into the middle distance.

I confess I don’t know much about Lena Dunham beyond watching the first season of Girls and Tiny Furniture eons before that. She’s become a figurehead and cultural icon among the Left and within the contemporary Feminist movement. She likes to appear nude on camera a lot, an act that offends dickheads because her curves don’t give them as good an erection as a woman whose tits look more edible under studio lights.

She’s also written a book, Not That Kind of Girl, a tell-all series of autobiographical essays. It is a particular passage or series of passages within this book that has the Palins’ pigeon feathers aflutter.

“Do we all have uteruses?” I asked my mother when I was seven.

“Yes,” she told me. “We’re born with them, and with all our eggs, but they start out very small. And they aren’t ready to make babies until we’re older.” I look at my sister, now a slim, tough one-year-old, and at her tiny belly. I imagined her eggs inside her, like the sack of spider eggs in Charlotte’s Web, and her uterus, the size of a thimble.

“Does her vagina look like mine?”

“I guess so,” my mother said. “Just smaller.”

One day, as I sat in our driveway in Long Island playing with blocks and buckets, my curiosity got the best of me. Grace was sitting up, babbling and smiling, and I leaned down between her legs and carefully spread open her vagina. She didn’t resist and when I saw what was inside I shrieked.

My mother came running. “Mama, Mama! Grace has something in there!”

My mother didn’t bother asking why I had opened Grace’s vagina. This was within the spectrum of things I did. She just got on her knees and looked for herself. It quickly became apparent that Grace had stuffed six or seven pebbles in there. My mother removed them patiently while Grace cackled, thrilled that her prank had been a success.

Immediate thoughts: Questionable. Curious. A seven-year-old of either gender does not have the mental or physical capacity to really equate ‘sexuality’ with ‘gratification,’ unlike a fourteen-year-old who will have been decorating their bedroom with fluids for at least two years beforehand. At the same time, a seven-year-old who spreads apart an infant’s vulva, in my opinion, could benefit from some manner of intervention. This speaks of playing doctor on a stranger level.

The media, namely the right-wing media, picked up on the story and perpetuated it to the masses, doing what they excel at: fearmongering. Headlines like “Lena Dunham Describes Sexually Abusing Her Little Sister” leave little room for argument or a forum for discourse. There are people who do not read their news beyond the headlines, and the Right revels in this. Bristol Palin penned her blog post calling us all hypocrites, and Mama Palin expanded on it via Facebook and Twitter.

A quick word  before moving on: the Left is not innocent of sensationalism. Not at all. Both parties wade heavily in this stink, and their respective news outlet share the guilt. This is why I try to avoid the politically polarized news as best I can.

So we have a woman who accounts doing something off color to her baby sister as a seven-year-old. With some reservation I can pass this off as a child not knowing any better. But as I delved further into the story, I kept reading comments and reminders that similar actions of Dunham’s continued until she was seventeen, and that this has also been chronicled in Not That Kind of Girl.

I see two problems here. First, I have not read Dunham’s book at this point in time. All of my information is being derived from the news, Left and Right, and the vitriol being spewed back and forth in comment sections. Until I read Not That Kind of Girl for myself, my only venue is listening to what the Internet says. Does the book really say this continued until Dunham’s late teens, or has someone made shit up?

Second, experience and common sense have taught me to take a Palin’s words with the smallest of smallest salt grains. I trust a Palin as much as I trust a rock.

Here’s the thing about a rock. Let’s assume, hypothetically, that it possesses a level of consciousness and self-awareness. A rock doesn’t like to move on its own accord. It is content with staying exactly where it is. This creates few opportunities for learning experiences. The only time it moves, and thus learns, is when it is moved by an outside force, usually a strong current or flood water. Such is a Palin.

In response to Mama and Baby Rock: we’re not being hypocritical when we speak against Josh Duggar. Josh was a horny teenage boy who put his hands where they didn’t belong. His family covered it up. His criminal record was destroyed. That is the issue, and that is why 19 Kids and Counting is gone and 45 minutes of the average American’s time is freed up to do something other than keeping up with their freaks –  like reading.

The Left is dividing on Dunham just as the Right is screaming about it and telling us to stay afraid and be afraid. There is no Liberal double-standard here. My observations indicate that the Left is conflicted about this as well.

And again, Josh Duggar touched children. Caitlyn Jenner did not.

Learn where priorities are.

AddendumI had to Google how to spell ‘Dunham’ and ‘Duggar’ multiple times throughout this article.

Vaccinate Your Children.

Do it.

“But I’m just not comfortable with all those chemicals being injected into my baby’s tiny body in a single syringe!”

Vaccinate your children.

“You know Marcy, the lady who lives down the street? Her little boy was fine, but then he got his shots and now he’s on the autism spectrum!”

That proves nothing. Vaccinate your children.

“But I just read a blog post that was very convincing! It linked to several damning case studies and even backed up its evidence with neat bar graphs!”

I don’t care. Vaccinate your children.

“Jenny McCarthy’s website just put up a report of some eye-opening…!”

Vaccinate your children!

“I saw a YouTube…!”

Vaccinate your children!

“This Facebook link that was shared on my…!”

VACCINATE YOUR CHILDREN!

“The only reason doctors want babies to get all those shots is because of how heavily the government is involved in the pharmaceutical industry and the control of our health care for profit!”

I consider myself left-leaning in many social matters. I’ve always been apprehensive about the sordid relationship between our government and business, and I’m well aware of all the deregulation, back-room deals and looks the other way that go on the name of money.

In this case, cut the hippy bullshit and vaccinate your children. This is not the place to rail against the dark side of capitalism. Refusing to immunize your babies puts not only your children but other children in danger. Collective ignorance in this matter runs the risk of bringing back pandemics that haven’t been seen in the United States in over 50 years. Stop whining and get it done.

“But what if…?”

There have been no scientific, medical or psychological studies that have provided any casual links to autism or other issues as a direct result of vaccinations. Vaccinate your children.

“Well they are MY babies and it is MY decision not to get them immunized! And that’s final!”

If that’s your attitude, what you are doing is the equivalent of punching your little one in the head. If your decision not to get your children their shots does not derive from a licensed medical professional’s advice, if your decision is based solely on your own willful ignorance and the trend of parents who choose not to immunize their babies based on no evidence, then your children should be taken away from you. And that’s final.

Your Car Horn Has Specific Purposes

Being an asshole is not one of them.

I don’t have nightmares often, so I remember them more than the usual fleeting REM nonsense. One I had a month ago highlighted a common routine that can ruin my entire day if I don’t get a grip fast enough.

I was in my car at a red light when suddenly the worst thing that could ever happen to a driver this side of being carjacked, kidnapped or killed happened to me: I went blind.

This actually happened twice during the dream. During both instances I was stopped in the same spot. The first time I just rubbed my eyes and my sight magically returned. The second time, however, I permanently lost my vision. I desperately pressed and clawed at my eyeballs, to no avail.

I remember my biggest fear in that nightmare was not that my life was veering into a different direction now that I was randomly blind. No, what I feared most of all was that the people behind me were going to start blasting their horns, completely oblivious or apathetic to the poor blacked out sap trapped in front of them. But before that happened, before the chorus of angry, impatient animals rose to a crescendo, I woke up.

Just to assure myself, I checked my eyesight.

The city that I live in is not the best in the country. There’s variety and enough activities for the non-shutins to keep themselves occupied. But there’s a reason the first syllable in the city’s name is often half-jokingly replaced with ‘Scum.’ Since I moved out here I’ve been robbed twice. The night is ruled by gangs and permeated with crime. But above all, what I hate more than anything, is how the drivers in this place abuse their horns.

I drive a midsize sedan. Its cut creates an unfortunate blind spot. If anything bigger than my car gets behind or in front of me when I’m trying to turn left at an intersection or a median, I cannot see until that person moves. Sometimes businesses put shrubbery or other obstacles in places where they shouldn’t be. In these instances, the safest thing to do is wait until the light is green or I’m sure there’s no oncoming traffic.

But the people in this town—many of them, apparently—don’t view it that way. They see a skiddish individual who isn’t moving because he’s fiddling with his phone or his air conditioner.

They decide to ‘correct’ me by applying their horns.

This doesn’t just happen during risky crossings. People will blare their horns at me the very millisecond a light goes green, as if anyone who doesn’t immediately floor it to 60 is ruining the entire highway system. I’m not asleep. I’m not distracted. I see the green and I move accordingly but apparently it isn’t fast enough. I’ve encountered these rude sons of bitches in every corner and crevice of this troubled town I’ve traveled.

Car horn jackassery does not discriminate based on age, race, or gender, though I have noticed a few common threads with the bastards. The demographic is usually that of an older white male with a gas slurping pickup…the same kind that when viewed from behind will have a Jesus fish embroidered on the back along with bumper stickers indicating the individual is Taxed Enough Already or prefers to keep his freedom instead of your ‘Change.’ His monstrosity often roars and rumbles like a souped up motorcycle when he steps on the gas. He may or may not wear a hat. He may or may not bear a Confederate Flag and/or a ‘Calvin Pissing’ sticker.

But as I said, horn abuse does not discriminate. Black people do it to me too. So do women.

If you are among these individuals who like rattling the person in front of them with a horn blast, I invite you to consider these two questions: 1). are you really that impatient? and 2). do your genitals really require that much more compensation?

Or perhaps you recognize this rude behavior within yourself and would like to correct it, in which case I offer you this refresher course. This is what your noise maker was intended to be used for:

  • Animals that have wandered out in the street.
  • Pedestrians who have wandered out in the street, either oblivious to oncoming traffic hazards, drunk, or both.
  • Cars that are veering into your space.
  • Children who aren’t paying attention.
  • Alerting someone that you have arrived at their house (though you could just leave your vehicle and knock on their doors to keep the peace.)

It is not for announcing to the world, and to me, that you are a dick.