justnick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Never Underestimate the Power of Tween Girls It occurs to me that I don't really go on MSN anymore. I suppose I don't really have anything to say. It's not like I'm nuts about the phone anymore, either. Strange, though, considering just how much of my time and energy talking online used to take up. Text messaging has essentially taken its place in the world, I guess, but it's still weird. It used to be the ultimate icebreaker. You get along with a girl, but not well enough to ask for the phone number? No problem, ask her for her ICQ number. And later, her AIM info. And then, finally, her MSN. Now, you just have to ask if she has Facebook, and that's just not the same. On the surface it's not as personal as a phone number, so it should be easier, right? Wrong, sparky. It has all manner of drunken pictures of you, and you just know that if you approve that guy, the first thing he's going to do is check all your tagged pictures for any signs of that ellusive creature, the bikini. (and if you didn't kow that, that's the first thing we do) So, sure, he's asking if you have Facebook, but we all know the real question is if you're interested in eventually having sex. Because we both know you have Facebook. The question was courtesy. So it's just a matter of if you want him to know you have Facebook. Hell, my mother has Facebook. My journalism classes had a Facebook group. I know you have Facebook before I even ask. And we both know that when I ask what your last name is, feigning curiosity, it's relly just so I can add you without asking first. Because then it's too late. You can't say no to a Facebook request, because we have mutual friends, and you might see me in public again, and how awkward would that be? I am an internet sniper. I am a hyena prowling the digital savannah, waiting in the shadows for the more powerful predator to turn his back on his rightful prize. My jaws are powerful, my stench profound, and the females are hard to tell apart from the males due to comically oversized clitorises. Okay, that last one only applies to real hyenas. (srsly, Look it up) And so the woman is mine. Too bad, buddy. You should have found out what Network she was in. Back when Mark Whalberg was Marky Mark, to coin a phrase, (read: steal it from Eminem) Steve and I--Steve is my eternal partener in crime and bad ideas--would sit on ICQ and hit 'random chat' over and over agagin until we found a girl around our age from Montreal, and then we'd chat her up. Or, in fairness, soemone who claimed to be a 14 year old girl from Montreal. Why? Who knows. It was just what you did then. You stayed up until all hours of the night seeing if you could find a girl to talk to. We were like a couple of dogs chasing a car, because damned if we knew what the hell to do once we found willing women. Once, we found a phone in a park. There was only one number in it. When we called, a girl answered, and gave us the address. When we rang the doorbell, four girls answered the door. One was in a towel, fresh from the shower, and the rest were wearing bikinis. All of us froze. I remember standing there, eyes wide, what little rational though I still posessed screaming 'say something! say anything!' But alas, no, we all just stood there until they awkwardly took the phone and shut the door. Yes, that happens outside the movies. I vowed that the next time I accidentally stumbled into a letter to Penthouse, I would play my part appropriately. Once, the hottest girl in school came up to me in Geography, smiled, and asked if the seat beside me was taken. I just sat there staring at her, trying desperately to reboot my brain, until she awkwardly walked away, red in the face. I genuinely couldn't speak. And that, ladies, is why the sexes will never be equal. You will never be able to beat us in an arm wrestle without hormone therapy and impressive manishness (well, you could beat me, but I hardly count), and we will never be able to strike a female so completely awestruck with our beauty that she can not even blink to save her life. Unless of course the boy is staring in Twilight, or High School Musical. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the ultimate injustice of the universe. I react the same way to Angelina Jolie that I do to the hot girl from my high school. And I know what I'm talking about, I've met Angelina freaking Jolie two freaking times. Yes, this entire entry was just an excuse to bring that up again. Excelsior. 2:53 a.m. - 2008-12-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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