The Do’s and Don’ts of Postgrad Facebooking
If you’re anything like me, most of your Monday mornings are spent scrolling through your Facebook news feed, observing what kind of crazy tomfoolery your long lost friends got into over the weekend. Then… it happens. You finally hit that one girl who-you-met-during-homecoming-freshman-year-and-were-so-close-to-fucking’s “Call Me Maybe Generic Top 40 Pop Song Gratuitous Bikini Cleavage” album from her trip down to the lake. Eh, a pre-work week creeping session wouldn’t be a terrible start to your week. You scroll down a bit to make sure there aren’t any better ones and… oh shit. Your pledge grandad just posted about 75 baby pics. Your comforter tent is a goner. Shower in shame, you sick bastard. You’ve fallen victim to one of the most heinous postgrad facebook offenses.
Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, The Champ’s Do’s and Don’ts of Postgrad Facebooking:
Take and post a ton of pictures from that wedding you went to. Weddings are awesome. Those memories deserve to last a lifetime. That couple, though? I give it eight months.
Update your status to let me know when you get a new job and/or move. I don’t want to show up at your old apartment at 4am out of drunken instinct and scare the shit out of some Lebanese family that you sublet to.
Change your relationship status when you get a new girlfriend or break up so I can post borderline inappropriate comments, get a shitload of likes on and hopefully a shocked response from one of your relatives.
Check in at bars.
Post links to my TFM articles.
Talk shit on rival sports teams. A not-so-subtle dig on the team you love to hate every now and then really gets the conversation going and has, on at least one occasion in my experience, led to an awesome bar fight. What a world we live in.
Make your account damn-near impossible for potential employers to find.
Take a picture of the frat when you go back. Always. And make sure those fucksticks on exec tell the pledges to get their shit together.
Post more than one picture of your baby, dog or meal a week. You can’t trick us into thinking your life isn’t boring now.
Post about how awful grad school is. Your decision. Don’t take it out on the internet. What did the internet ever do to you?
Take a picture of what your desk looks like. Ever. I get depressed enough looking at my own.
Sync your Instagram account with your Facebook account. Zuckerberg just bought it to show off his gigantic phallus made of U.S. treasury bonds. They are two separate entities for a reason.
Change your relationship status more than twice every 18 months. Might as well stamp your one way ticket to crazy town if you’re going to publicize having that much relationship trouble in what should be the dating prime of your life.
Keep posting picturess from the professional wedding album if you’ve been married for more than six months. That shit is forced, pathetic, cheesy and makes me want to chase my coffee with hemlock. Again, I have no problem with blurry cameraphone shots of the maid-of-honor making out with the DJ, but remind me of love’s eternal flame and I will de-friend the shit out of you.
Create an event asking for phone numbers because you “misplaced your phone”. You’re a grown up now. Stop publicizing to the world that you can’t hold on to a plastic block the size of an index card. Back up your contacts online like a real person, start being a functioning member of society and stop wasting my time.
Friend anyone you work with.
Post, like or comment on graphic photos of injured or dead US soldiers that ask people to like them because they “DYED FOR ARE COUNTRY.” If I “liked” seeing US soldiers dead, then I’d probably kill myself.
Post multiple pictures from your honeymoon. That’s just weird. But I mean, if you want to post a pic of the new wife in a bikini in Montego Bay that’s accessible to all of our fucked up friends, that’s at your discretion.
Poke my mom.
Create a facebook account if you had already graduated college before facebook was invented. Shit’s creepy.
End every status with “LOL.” That’s the universal sign for “I don’t know how to wrap up this socially awkward/terrible/uninteresting tidbit about my life.”
Make your pictures private. I want to relive every single memory that we’ve had together… but if you want to finally delete that picture of me taking a dump in the pool at Club La Vela in PCB back in ‘08, I am perfectly okay with that.
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