Facebook, I will burn you to the ground. I will descend upon you like a horde of locusts and devour your increase and nothing will be left for the gleaners. The Angel of Death will visit your house and wipe you off the face of the Internet.
I say unto you, I will not actually destroy you, for your bloated, gassy carcass would explode in my face were I to anoint you with fire. And there would go mine eyebrows. But I will cleanse you with an holy purgative. Lo, I will cast my list of friends into the very bowels of hell. Yea will I delete their names with a scorching that will be lamented by their children, and the children of their children.
First will I delete the very young—the ones who do that thing with their lips. Anyone who does that thing with their lips will I utterly delete.
I will delete those friends who lurk in the shadows, swooping in to “like” a vicious comment when they think I am not looking. Oh, they shall be deleted into Outer Darkness.
Friends who have passed through the veil since our friending, your numbers are four. And I will keep you close to my bosom, and I will delete you not.
But the person with 3,376 friends and counting? You will suffer a terrible deletion. And you whose posts proclaim your wealth and worldliness to the point where I just can’t even? Thou art gone, girl.
And verily I will delete the people who I know for a fact dislike me. And I will yet delete the friends I friended even though I disliked them with a great and mighty disliking, for I never said that I did not, also, suck.
And the accounts that have been deactivated like so many whited sepulchers (26 in total)? Wherefore art thou still on my list? Get thee the hell behind me.
The friend whose mother told me I was fat when I was a teenager? You are deleted by association (and seriously, who does that?).
Friends who message me admonitions to repent and return to the straight and narrow, to you it is given to be deleted. Friends who only want me in their downline shall feel the weight of my defriending so, so, so hard.
Did I reach out to you, a stranger in my father’s house, when I was in the throes of going Paleo? Ciao, baby. And did we inadvertently befriend each other because our names are so commonplace? That was no happy coincidence. Bye bye!
And did you secretly unfollow me when I murmured the word “shit” without an asterisk? Behold, you are defriended.
And when I have pronounced my judgments upon you, I will make a new and everlasting covenant with the righteous. That is, I’ll send you another friend request. Please say yes. We were, after all, in the same homeroom.
Well, UPS has barricaded me into my own home with the components of a chicken coop that is evidently made of lead. I guess the boxes will stay there until I develop the upper body strength that has eluded me for the past 46 years. I guess I’ll never leave my house again. I guess this is goodbye. (I know–I’m being melodramatic. Of course I can step over the boxes.)
When one is born with exactly zero spatial intelligence, it behooves one not to order chicken coops that have to be assembled. But one goes and does these things anyway. One is an idiot.
Also, one should wash one’s door.