Facebookial clarity

I learned a lesson tonight.

What I learned is, facebook stalking availeth nothing but disappointment and discouragement.

Listen-- go on living in your little dream world, where anything is possible with anyone. Go on believing that you might mean something special to someone in a more special way than anyone else could mean anything specially, because the minute you get curious, you'll find you're not so special after all.

Well, maybe you are special somehow. But the point is that you're not as special as you thought you were, which is equally disappointing, maybe more so.

WOULD YOU RATHER: be secure knowing you're not special at all to someone? Or know you're special, unsure to what extent?

Facebook and blogs will remind you that those arms have held someone else, and those hands reached for someone who is not you. That laugh has delighted in someone else's cleverness. That heart has missed someone while they were away, while you were here all along.

I'm not even talking romantically, lest everyone chalk up this entry to be another Sad Loveless Emily blog. It could be romantical, if you like. It could be friendly. Mostly it's a matter of meaning. You don't mean as much as you thought you did. The way they treat you doesn't have so much meaning because it turns out they treat someone else differently too. The sentiment behind the unspoken affection doesn't mean quite so much.

You're not really so different from her, you know. You're cut from the same kind of cloth-- at least on the surface. You like similar art and books and weird bands, but they like the same art and the same books and the same weird bands. Turns out you're synthetic and they're the expensive import.

Synthetic fabric is less expensive; why beat around the bush? it's cheap. I know I'm not cheap. They don't make you feel cheap. How can't you feel cheap? I mean, I get it. Even I'd pick cashmere over a cotton blend any day-- cashmere who "gets" modern art, no less.

That's my vice, I think. I don't "get" modern art. I'm trying. I keep trying, I'll keep trying, though I hardly come close to understanding. They understand. I think I'm the canvas modern art is painted on, and they are the trendy silk curtains hanging in the gallery-- the curtains who hang there and study modern art all day, but I can't see the painting since it's painted on me, painted over my eyes or at an angle that limits my view. Canvas is rough and showcases a subjective experiment. Silk curtains are complimentary and unobtrusive and not necessarily up for aesthetic debate. Who argues about curtains while they're in a modern art gallery anyway?

You don't want to find out what they think about someone who is special to you. I promise, you don't want to know that anyone is special to them the very way that same anyone is special to you. You want to go on in a state of happy ignorance, especially when you've only briefly met your comparison. You want to recall your own memories without someone else's intruding. You don't want to be the first choice, upon which they can look for, and find, improvements. The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.

For once in your life, you want to be picked last.

So don't stalk anyone on facebook. Your remedial math skills might reveal you're not as special as you thought you were. 1 + 1 = 2.