I was given fried chicken a few days ago. It was imaginary. I’ve also recently been given flowers, beer, and a massage. They were also imaginary.
All of these gifts came to me via Facebook.
When I was three I used to pretend that I was wearing a jetpack and intercepting Russian missiles. When I was seven I would pretend that I was a pirate, lost at sea, who survived on the brains of giant squids. When I was eighteen I went to college. When I was thirty I got some pretend fried chicken.
Now before I recreate yesterday’s tirade in blog form, allow me to deconstruct your criticism.
“It’s just fun.”
No it isn’t. If I have a message that says I’ve been given a virtual Coke, I’d better be able to be virtually refreshed by it.
“It’s a display of friendship.”
No it isn’t. I don’t give my friends pretend gifts unless I’m pretending to be their friend.
“Just relax and go with it.”
I can’t. I’m thirty years old and I’m being asked to pretend I’m thankful for a pretend gift in a pretend world. And if I get one more pretend gift, I’m going to pretend to kill myself. Those of you who enjoy these pretend situations will pretend to be mortified by my pretend suicide. And I’ll pretend to be sorry for any pretend emotional damage I do.
No comments:
Post a Comment