Today my computer yelled at me.
Well, more accurately, Facebook yelled at me. Funny how guilty you can feel after a scolding from an inanimate object run by electrical impulses sent through a system of mysterious, invisible, mathematical equations. (is the internet alien-based? hmmm….that’s a blog for another day)
I play a stupid, addicting cooking game on Facebook, and we used to be able to add friends willy-nilly. Which is great, because this game is ridiculous and you have to bug everyone you’ve ever met in your life to advance at all. Complete strangers are helpful in these quests; they don’t know you from Adam, but don’t care – they’ll send whatever parts you need so long as it helps them down the line.
But Facebook has changed a ‘friending’ policy, so that you can’t send friend requests to people you don’t already know, or know friends of. (this blog is getting confusing; are you with me here?) Which is great, really, because I feel more hopeful about the stalker I tried to block, and the chance that he might not be a bother again. (although technically I still work with him, so I guess this won’t help overall)
Well I failed to read all the fine print of the updated ‘friend/not friend’ prviacy policy, and I got a note that the Facebook gods were scornful of me and needed some kind of blood sacrifice, or a gigabyte of cheese pizza or something. Yeesh… make me feel guilty for playing your damn game, why don’t you! So, I’m sorry person I upset by sending you a note that you could have easily just said “NO” to. And I’m sorry Facebook, that I upset your delicate structure and offended your new and improved policies.
Whew…getting in trouble by strangers and the World Wide controller of all thoughts is hard work, and tiring. I better go lie down.
Today on my way to work, a skinny old lady with a shock of gray hair crossed the street on a red light in front of me. All her little old lady friends stood on the corner, compliantly waiting for the light to turn green and allow them to cross the street in safety and relative anonymity. Not this chick. Hands in her pockets, posture slumped slightly BACKWARDS, not like a hunched up old lady; like a former cool cat, strutting across the street with a sort of nonchalant “hey, whassup?” kind of attitude. Only she scurried across the street, because she didn’t really want to get hit by oncoming traffic; she just wanted to be a touch defiant, and live on the fast lane for a minute or two. She wanted the rush of adrenaline that comes with minor rebellions and innocent civil disobedience. She wanted to embrace her youth and strength and power and live in the moment – in the powerful, exhilarating, precious moment that is today. That is NOW.
She ran across the street with a smile on her face and a glance back at her timid friends, and crossed over into a world of possibility.
And I want to be just like her.