I Eat Exceptional Pretzels, Damnit!

Officially ten days left until I’m off Facebook for good. I have now shared this blog with the world (at least, the people I know in it).

Last night I told my mom I was quitting the blue drug. I felt I needed to, since I set her up with HER Facebook page. She doesn’t really know how to use it, and therefore continually asks me to help her with it, even three years later. She of all people needed to know I was moving on to a Facebook-free existence.

Munga on Facebook

Munga the day I created her Facebook page. We never made much more progress.

She was happy. She said, of course, what I expected an almost-60-year-old to say. “I don’t like that you have so much private information out there for the whole world to see.”

Not surprising.

Then she said something I didn’t expect…

“Do you think your friends will be mad at you? Since you don’t want to see the things they post any more?”

I actually had to think about that for a second.

Really, I don’t know. I certainly hope they won’t be MAD (and if they are, well – that’s pretty lame, and good riddance), but some of them are probably going to think (if not say) that I’m pretentious. That I think I’m better than them somehow because I chose to get clean.

So I’m just going to say it – I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I think I, like most people, am pretty boring. Which is why I want to stop obsessing about how I’m going to make my completely normal life sound exceptional on Facebook. And why I want to stop feeling a responsibility (yes, that’s what I actually feel – Type A, yo!) to finding other people’s normality exceptional and expressing it in witty sound bites.

I’m going to save all my normal up and hit you in the FACE with it when we hang out in person or talk on the phone (or, okay – I’ll take email). Because then it might ACTUALLY be funny. Or might even seem exceptional. Hell – at least we can have a beer while we catch up. And then you can hit me in the face BACK with your exceptional normality!

And in the meantime, I will suffer less eye strain and fewer cramps in my index finger from scrolling on my iPhone. And Trent will make fewer disgruntled faces at me.

Now, my sister had a very different response to the question of whether or not to keep my Facebook account…

“That would be so bogue. You’re my FB pimp, you get me addicted to the crack, and then you go to rehab and end up living a quiet suburban life, while I’m the addicted crack whore wasting away on skid row???? Bogue.”

She’s good with them words. Extra points for using “bogue.” Sorry I forced her into a life of addiction.

I have a really exceptional bag of peanut butter-filled pretzels to go annihilate now. Like that.

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