It occurs to me that the majority of my posts these days consist of work related topics or banal reports on my cat. As we all know, Facebook, and wider social media in general, isn’t actually there for me to tell you about the odd lumps of interest in my day to day life, but rather for me to fool all you simple motherfuckers into believing that I live like some kind of international rock star.
My social media presence exists to convince you that I am, just like you are, the most successful person in the world. By sheer social skill and technique, I have managed to elude the press and keep the paparazzi from hammering down my door with a battering ram in a frenzied bid to claim just one photograph – don’t worry, you’ll see it on the cover of Vogue’s next big release if they ever do.
Not convinced? Look at how many friends I have. Do you have this many friends? Of course you do. I use my wall-of-selfie-faces to cynically manipulate your view of me. The wall-of-selfie-faces screams, ‘Look at me! Look at how popular I am! Bask in the reflected glow of how successful I have become!’ Granted I only actually know about a hundred of these people, and the rest of them are people from schools I haven’t been to in decades, others who I have some bleary recognition of saying ‘hello’ to at some social event or another before blithely moving on with my life. But like I keep saying, that’s not the point, is it?
So, to the meat it: what did I do with my Friday night? Well, it started on the roof of Buckingham palace with a few lines of cocaine off of Cherie Blair’s twat while David Cameron and Gene Simmons played naked twisted in one corner, and the Duchess of Cambridge performed burlesque to grime music to the rapt attention of Prince Phillip and Xzibit, among a small crowd of others. Barack Obama danced a strange mix of Swan Lake and the tango, across the lawn, with Michelle Pfeiffer. God knows where J.K. Rowling, Hulk Hogan, and Doug Stanhope got off to…