I once had the misfortune of having had to open a Friendster account for work purposes. If you think, “Well that was fun,” the nonconformist in me was not so amused. Now that the main reason for the account is no longer pressuring me to be falsely amiable and to have a pleasing personality implant, the account has retained the appeal of spit on a wad of tissue. Now I am thankfully back to brooding and plotting the sabotage of primetime telenovelas.
Then I saw him once while I was surfing the net in pathetically continuous waves of boredom and disillusionment. That smooth, pale skin; the outdated glasses and the half a coconut husk haircut diplomatically parted at the side as a compromise were unmistakably his. The air of friendly geekiness gave him away even more.
I would never admit to having a crush because I am a candidate for the yet to be established nonconformist award but he was probably the closest I could get to having one. Strangely, I married someone who is the exact opposite, one who seems more like an over grilled minion of Hades on rehabilitation than ideal husband material.
It’s been more than five years of fantastic culturally rebellious living with my buff, gruff, brown husband. Seeing the geek however has made me think for a fraction of a second of connecting with the other side. After all, they say Facebook is to basil and thyme as Friendster is to Maggi Magic Sarap. The supposedly sophisticated, some of whom have varying sizes of artificial implants, are all in Facebook. Of course, there are also genuine gems I might have the pleasure of meeting there.
I’m not sure. I’ve been getting invitations to open a Facebook account for months and every time I get one, an internal switch makes me blurt, “Facebook yourself.” The geek may not be worth the aggravation.