Every morning, if I’m lucky, I wake up and the first thing I do is check my phone. Because of how culture works as of late, by default I perform foreplay with my Twitter, and then go around back for a little Instagram, throw in a subtle slap on Snapchat, and naturally climax with Facebook. There are plenty of days when I have absolutely no clue why social media is a thing, especially Facebook. I usually enjoy Twitter most whenever it’s used by people as an outlet for witty quips and news. The moment I see someone post, “My life sucks,” or, “Doing my delicates,” I’m out of there faster than a sloppy-seconds husband is out of the idea of Black Friday shopping. As for Instagram, I appreciate it because it’s essentially a really easy way to fulfill the scrapbooking bullet on my bucket list. Snapchat, well, it’s the lazy man’s form of texting, but I hear the teenagers really love it because it’s another way to gain a feeling of instant regret. Facebook, however. It’s kind of like all three of those were thrown into a blender, but instead of getting a nice, rich smoothie, you get a chunky liquid that looks like it should be used to ward off unwanted vampires. Or politicians.
A highly popular thing to do on The Book of Face is to post political statements that are entirely inappropriate and misinformed. Usually when I see these, I either block your ass or de-friend you immediately. Then there are the millions upon millions of people I’m friends with that went (or still attend) the high school I would make appearances at. In high school nowadays, your main goal besides getting a good lunch table is you have to be friends with everyone on Facebook. That’s what defines your self-worth, or at least apparently that’s what I thought defined it. Now I regret wanting to have that acne-charged self-worth. My Facebook feed is just a constant influx of people complaining about their parents or their jobs or their obvious weight gain that is a product of unhappiness and Arby’s. (Arby’s, by the way, is just one big test to see if you can still go through diarrhea.) And please, let’s not get me started on those who converse with each other and toss in phrases such as, “That’s gay,” or, “You’re such a fag.” You’re such a dipshit. De-friend.
What’s always surprising, however, is when I find out via Facebook that someone from high school is pregnant. There are people I graduated with who have two or three or seventy babies, and I’ve only been out of the secondary education spectrum for a couple years. I see the sonograms, followed with the baby bumps, and the constant piddling of status updates letting me know that all these girls just can’t wait for the little bundle of banana-mush eating joy to pop out.
I get it. Sometimes it’s your choice to have a kid and you feel like it’s what you’re meant to do in this life. I imagine most of the time in these situations you prefer to think it was your choice to bear the baby goat, but the real choice was was made by a few rounds of PBR and an old Faith Hill song. And I’m sure there are tons upon tons of young parents who raise their children beautifully. Okay, so I don’t believe there actually is a beautiful way to raise a child, but give it your all and try to see where I’m going with that. Thanks to Facebook, unfortunately, it’s not all sonograms and protruding bellybuttons.
Facebook shows the ugly stuff. Surprise! But don’t worry, it’s there forever upon ever. I click on that picture of your soon-to-implode body, which leads me to clicking on your profile, which then leads me to what the teenyboppers call “creeping.” Creeping is when you just completely stalk the hell out of someone via the Internet. So when I creep on a pregnant former classmate’s profile, I witness a lot. What I like to focus my gaze on the most is the art of the poorly constructed status update. More often than not, heavy emphasis on the “often,” these statuses involve the Jersey girl candidates cussing out their boyfriends for cheating or leaving or eating the last sodium-packed frozen waffle.
“Lyke this status if u think Dino is a mothahfuckin’ man hore!”
“I dont need no man. I’ma raise this bby all on my own. That tramp can’t take this awy frm me.”
“Well da jokes on you, Timmy! Dis ain’t even yur kid!”
I’m not sure what this exactly says about the setting of the high school I went to. The suburbs of the suburbs of the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, just let me tell you. Really, nothing is like Saved by the Bell in the end. The problem was I didn’t attend a school in the ghetto or in a war camp, but I went to school with a lot of kids who thought they did. There was also a fair amount of students who believed they were the second coming of John Deere, which no one understood was clearly yours truly. Anyway, pregnancy.
All of these Facebook PPPs, Pompous Pregnancy Postings, have fortunately done a lot more for me than just be a nuisance that makes me want to scream obscenities from my Chicago-based apartment window. One day I saw a stomach that was almost as big as a monster truck’s tire, which led to me almost yelling, “I am going to resurrect all of the Nazis and send them after whoever wrote all of Danny Tanner’s cheesy-ass lines!” Behind the annoyance factor of this lies one mental note after another mental note. “Mental notes of what?” What to expect when I’m expecting.
- When I become impregnated by the supposed love of my life, I will not announce anything in regards to the child until I am absolutely positive the thing will become an actual human being. So never.
- My sonogram will not be in black and white. All of these people and their black and white sonograms. I get it, vintage is in, hipster is in, all that jazz. I will be having my sonogram printed in color. If I wanted the outline of my spawn to look like a rerun of I Love Lucy, I’d just… Well I don’t know what I’d do, but I’d do it and I’d do it with grace and an arc to my left eyebrow.
- No picture will ever be taken of my outie. If a picture of my stomach absolutely needs to be taken, I’ll invest in super glue and make sure that that sucker never sees the light of day. My bellybutton will become the real-life Edward Cullen.
- No Facebook. Just no Facebook for me while I’m with burden. I’ll delete my Facebook. This will also aid in getting rid of all those pictures of me on there in which I look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy made sweaty love with the before from a Proactiv commercial.
- I get to eat all of the cupcakes in the world.
- My baby shower will take place at either The Cheesecake Factory, The Cheesecake Factory, or possibly even The Cheesecake Factory. If The Cheesecake Factory is all booked for the day of my shower, then we’ll pleasantly have to resort to The Cheesecake Factory. Worst case scenario: We go to The Cheesecake Factory, but that’s only if The Cheesecake Factory and The Cheesecake Factory are both full. I’m really pulling for heading to The Cheesecake Factory, nevertheless. I’ve never been there for some ungodly reason.
- I’m not sure how I feel yet about vaginal birth. I think I might go into the whole labor thing like, “Yes! Vaginal birth! Pull that child out via my vagina!” Then if the process starts and I start to not be able to tell the difference between my vagina and my anus, I’ll ask as politely as possible to go in a different direction with the project and to consider a C-section route. I’m open to anything, truthfully. Hell, I’ll consider the D-section route if Dr. Clooney so inquires.
- The name will be something that shows off my German ethnicity, but it additionally has to be something that a drag queen would full-heartedly be proud of. Helen Von Goodybags. Fredrick Fuckmychicken. Andrea Gonads. And so on and so forth.
- At this point, having had the E.T. and all, I’ll probably revive my Facebook and post a lot of pictures that accentuate my post-pregnancy flat stomach. By flat stomach, I’m implying my slight muffin top that’s already on my body by default/via cake. (Note to self: Go to therapy in order to deal with the Muffin Top Issue.)
- I physically can’t let a child come from my being, and that is a primo example of modern-day sexism. Please go back to the beginning of this list and repeat steps 1-9, with a strong emphasis on 5.
I’m not sure if all pregnant people make a list like that. I didn’t read the book. What I should do is go on Facebook and just ask what seems to be one out of every five people on my list of acquaintances. See, even acquaintances isn’t what I’d call some of these folks. I don’t know what else to call them. Facebook Extremities? Does that work? I’m registered at Macy’s, Sears, and The Cheesecake Factory.