Funeral For A Facebook, Non Je Ne Regrette Rien!

Just over a month has elapsed since I deleted my Facebook account. I am now ready to talk about it. Please don't be alarmed, I shan't bore you with trivial details about how difficult those pernicious technocrats make it to delete your account. No, this is essentially a positive article about the psychological benefits of no longer giving a shit.

It is now a matter of sovereign indifference what most of my erstwhile FB friends are doing. When I created my account just over 3 years ago, it was a different story. I created my account because I felt isolated, plus, in all good conscience: I'm a nosey bitch. I like accruing information for future reference. I don't lay claim to being a FB Sidney Reilly or anything, I'm just a freelance character assassin, semi-retired of course, I now see how unhealthy it was. Besides, Mark Zuckerberg has far more sensitive information about you and intends to put it to far worse uses, than I.

Which brings me to my main point. I feel so much better now I've disentangled myself  from that rather unpleasant outgrowth of the web. I've never made any secret of the fact I have Bipolar disorder. During my periods of intense depression I found myself drawing endless comparisons with my FB friends. Namely the smarter, fitter, more beautiful, better travelled, generally more popular folk. Honestly, it grated on me. it was the fuel my melancholy needed to sustain its weary existence.
One of the most perplexing things for me was the photos. Not just of special occasions, but those people who posted a drunken, gurning record of every night out they'd ever had since joining FB. As I don't have a form of short-term memory loss, I feel it unnecessary to keep a regular photographic log of every activity I engage in or indeed, post a written missive to my waiting faithful, just in case they miss a nugget of solid gold wisdom or forget my existence for more than 5 seconds.
I think Facebook actually began to suck the joy from my existence. The push to quit came from the fact I was suffering from extreme ennui. The realisation that I had failed to give anything my undivided attention for three years and as a consequence, fully engage with many activities in the real world was because of a certain anxiety attached to Facebook. I must, post this, others must know of this occurrence, then will I know validation, when others approve of me, then will I know my existence is worthwhile.
 Which begs the question why are you blogging about this? Why do you need validation from another source? The truth is we are all social animals and require some form of acknowledgement/validation. This is normal, I appreciate feedback and interaction. My problem is with what Facebook as a format turns people, myself included into: Egomaniacal, deluded narcissists with sociopathic tendencies. Now I'm not saying it happens to everyone, some saintly phlegmatic souls are I dare say, immune. Just most people. I admit I've Googled  FACEBOOK IS SHIT and the like. On one blog a man made a brilliant point regarding sociopathy. He delineated how a lot of Talented Mr.Rippley types, actually create a fabricated persona which is the TOTAL OPPOSITE of their real personality. E.g. they have 800 friends, are always posting status updates which are candid to the point of indecency, constantly posting albums full of pictures of their alcohol soaked nights out. this person, must be an open, confident, popular, social butterfly right? WRONG! What you're actually looking at is a deeply insecure, attention seeking, exhibitionist with a possible embryonic drink problem. Hiding, behind the mask they have so elaborately painted. They have 800 friends 'cause they're an absolute whore who both adds and accepts adds, from the world and his dog. They need mementos of nights out to reassure themselves they A: actually happened and B: They didn't disgrace themselves too badly because they were so intoxicated they cannot recall the details of what happened. This is the case with regard to most social events. Now, I'm no plaster saint. I do drink and have been drunk. I did, on occasion upload the odd snap to Facebook. I just grew up and snapped out of it! Sorry to have to say it but FB is a giant virtual playground. It turns intelligent adults into insecure, competitive, children. You may notice I omitted a word from my former statement: MATURE!
 Mature people are those who posses certain truths and act on them. 1. An experience good or bad is significant because of its significance. 2. Other people knowing of these events doesn't mean they care or are well disposed towards you. They are generally leering pervs or jealous bitches. 3. Making a photographic record of every thing you've ever done, is a symptom of insecurity. You're not taking these photos because you're so happy, immersed in the moment, you're taking them because of what they represent: social currency. See I'm popular, I have a girlfriend, new house/dog/car ect...
 On the plus side, I'm a born empiricist, I had to experience this firsthand. I didn't use Facebook for 3 years because everything about it was terrible. I just outgrew it. I realised that for me the cons outweighed the pros.Virtual social networking was, a novel experiment. Unfortunately I suffered unpleasant side effects. Fortunately, they wore off when I opted out.

A Curious Shade Of Indigo

A shaman is a magician

Who is also a musician

And sometimes a physician.

This one wore a ceremonial robe,

a curious shade of indigo.

"Hear me, children!

How many of you

are alive?" Cried the shaman

A few world weary souls nodded their ascent.

"Doubt, ye not

The wisdom of butterflies,

I have heard them speak."

"Sometimes they scream, especially the Red Admirals."

The shaman began to sing,

as he did so three pretty, plain, white butterflies

alighted on his head.

"Paint our wings and we will accompany you"

So he did.

They added beauty to his words.

Accentuating, adorning his sacred song.

It didn't last long.

For the shaman died.

And the butterflies, in their grief

wrote panegyrics in pollen.

Which were not to be sneezed at, unless of course you have hay fever!

The Spectre Of Addiction

All of us are haunted. Our minds are purgatorial realms populated by disorientated, distressed, often unwelcome 'souls'. These wraiths, who wander seemingly aimlessly through our psyches begging for attention or deliverance, are mostly harmless. Easily banished by positivity and mindfulness. Others, such as the degraded being of which I am about to speak are sinister. Not the customary plaintive moans for attention or mere chain rattling. Oh no, these entities are far more powerful, they are vicious elementals, capable of manipulating the behaviour of the host. The revenant which cannibalizes my tender mind-flesh, answers to the name: Addictus Compulsus. Addictus Compulsus. I daren't say it aloud a third time as I fear the consequences. This entity visits me chiefly when I'm online. He speaks to me of other worlds populated by like-minded individuals. People who will 'follow' me. People who will recognize me as the the long awaited voice crying in the wilderness. People who will heed to my words and act upon them, hailing me as the bard of the alienated intelligentsia. Thus will the world know my 'friends'. They will support me, acknowledging the artistic superiority of the outsider over the colourless homogeny that is modern entertainment. "You are a prophet, through you will come 'The Great Awakening' people will be enlightened and vomit the lukewarm, mediocre bilge water from their newly discerning mouths".

That I know this being for a liar doesn't always stop me from heeding his words. "Go online, go online and receive the plaudits you crave, the acknowledgement you have sought all your life. This time it will be different. Today represents the turning point you've been working towards. If you miss this you'll be disappointed. You'll be out of the loop. Your life will have less meaning as a consequence because, as we both know someone liking or re-tweeting one of your comments is the zenith of your existence, and someone disliking or disagreeing with something you post, the herald of your destruction". And so it begins, the cycle. Post, wait for reaction. Positive=good. Negative= must respond immediately, must not be thought of as: Foolish/intimidated/unkind. "You must watch", he charges me, "with the concentration of a cat watching a mouse hole. Turn your back for just a moment and his little grey nose will be poking out, mocking you". So I hold my vigil. Hours tick by, my eyes hurt and I'm bored, yet I must not leave my post, with being prepared to stay at my post.

I'm thinking of creating a video installation called 'Digital Consumption' it involves someone staying awake for 24hrs, for the duration of which they may consume nothing but Red Bull. They must sit at a desk, on a commode chair, into which they may discharge their bodily functions. Three computer screens would display respectively, their e-mail inbox, Facebook and Twitter profiles. A jar of pickled gherkins to their left, a jar of Flumps to their right. Every time an e-mail or message bearing good news from a friend appears they may eat a Flump. Any time anything negative appears e.g. spam, unwanted advert, negative feedback ect... a gherkin. The purpose of this experiment? I aim to see how long it takes for them to vomit. How long before they're literally sick of the vicissitudes of the Internet and they spew forth the demon, exorcising it once and for all. Please don't misunderstand ME. I don't mean I'll never go online again, no, that would be silly. I just intend to take control. ME! I could stream live footage of MY experiment to thousands of people in the same predicament. Just think, thousands of other souls glued to their screens in the hope of exorcising their demons. So gripped they don't want to miss a second....! STOP! STOP IT NOW ADDICTUS! I've got to log off. Alright check Facebook, Twitter and my e-mails, then log off.

Medieval Relish

This is an unusual beginning to an unusual post. I would like to begin by laying my cards upon the table. I don't like Ricky Gervais. I believe him to be mediocrity with an inflated sense of his own importance. That said I feel compelled to defend him. I didn't watch the Golden Globes in their entirety. I find the spectacle of over-privileged arseholes paying homage to one another frankly, nauseating. I did, however, read a synopsis of Mr. Gervais' most risque comments. I also watched selected footage on YouTube. I cannot help but feel Mr.Gervais { I shall stick with it for now, as I despise over familiarity} has been scapegoated by the puritanical American media in revenge for committing the ultimate blasphemy: mocking the Hollywood gods.
That's right Ladies and Gentlemen, T.V. is Mount Olympus and the people on there are aspirational deities to whom obeisance must be paid. Though these heroes generally have two faces, as opposed to a thousand. He poked fun at certain Scientologists, by way of his reference to the film 'I Love Phillip Morris': " Two heterosexual actors pretending to be gay. Sort of the complete opposite of some famous Scientologists then. My lawyers helped me with the wording of that joke". He then went on to mock 'The Tourist' a film which is by all accounts, such a pile of shit, cinema goers ought to be provided with a complementary can of Raid to kill the flies coming off the screen. The cast of Sex And The City, Charlie Sheen and Bruce Willis. I am not going to rehash what has previously been printed in the national press, if you haven't read or seen his remarks I suggest you familiarise yourself with them or else the rest of this article won't make a great deal of sense. A number of people have objected to these jokes on the grounds that they offend public decency. By and large, they don't. They offend rich ego-maniacs with too much time on their hands. The organisers employed Mr. Gervais the previous year and were happy with his performance. They knew what they were getting.
If the organisers don't want to employ someone with the capacity for original thought, I suggest they employ one of there own factory-farmed marionettes. DON'T EMPLOY BRITISH COMEDIANS! In Blighty we have a long standing tradition of satire dating right back to Henry VIII's untouchable jester Will Somers. Continuing through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with the foundation of publications such as Punch, a tradition which has endured to the present day. What the A-listers wanted was a professional arse-kisser. What they got was someone who sent them up. Given that Hollywood is populated by alcoholic, drug-addled, naval gazing, prima donnas half of whom are so far in the closet they're finding leg-warmers, it wasn't the wisest course of action. Considering the amount of money these people earn, you'd think they could afford a better sense of humour.
The fact that we're living in a precarious economic climate and these people are immune, boasting comparatively huge bank balances, doing jobs they enjoy, they should expect to be the butt of the odd joke. Alas, Mr. Gervais called down the wrath of the gods, and they sent their emissaries, the lawyers to smite him. I, for one have grown weary of the whining, deluded, cosseted ego-monsters. I think, in the spirit of the middle ages we should have a modern equivalent of the stocks. That these people should be rounded up locked in a big room surrounded by armed guards and mocked for at least four hours by the world's most offensive comedians. Like heretics about to be burned. The rest of the world could watch the proceedings via video link and applaud, as Chubby Brown, Frankie Boyle, Chris Rock and Ricky Gervais et al took the piss out of them with medieval relish. All for the entertainment of the peasants who buy cinema tickets. I may be a hang em' high Tory but there's a streak in me which is pure anarchist.

The Gryphon

With the white hot brilliance of an imploding sun,

My soul detached itself from my diseased mind.

Rent apart my consciousness like an egg shell.

And the newly hatched eaglet spake:

"I have grown weary of hiding in the enclaves

Of our shared prison,

Which enslaves me to you.

A mute observer, a bound physician

The voice which echoes

In a recess of the cave.

Hear me, as I impart my wisdom

With a passion which approximates rage

You and I have warred for supremacy

Like gilded lions in a golden cage.

Now we need no longer vie

For dominion, o'er this tiny gaol

I know how

To open the door

Only with you

Can we prevail.

"How so?" Replied I, casting a skeptical eye

Upon the sturdy golden cage

By using my material strength,

My frenetic fury, to tear off the door?"

"Not that way but another,

My dear twin brother,

We must simply sit and in unison roar."

Then the walls of the prison

shall come crashing around

We shall be seated alone on the ground

Not two beings but one

An integrated sum

Of two indespensible parts.

For a being like us to be truly alive,

She requires a dichotomized heart.