Mybook

Posted on July 7, 2012

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“Eff!” His mother bellowed, slamming the piece of paper on the table.

“Eff?” her son responded quizzically.

“Eff!”

“Eff?”

David’s mom clenched her fists, her face red with fury. She turned and stormed off to her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. David shrugged his shoulders. He hadn’t bothered to look at his math test when the teacher passed it back. He had just stuffed it in his backpack, really not caring to know what he got. Leaving his test on the table and still not bothering to look at it, he went up the stairs to his bedroom. Once inside he sat at his desk and touched the mousepad of his laptop. The black screen quickly changed to his Mybook profile. He smiled ear to ear and relaxed in his chair, and refreshed the page. His status hadn’t recieved any likes. He sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair, and slamming his palms down on either side of his laptop. His mouth hung open. “How could this be?” he asked aloud. “No likes?”

“No likes,” his brother, sitting atop the bunk bed, immersed in the weekly issue of Mybook and Social Success magazine, said.

“No likes?”

“No likes.”

“Why is this happening?”

“Did you know,” his brother began, as if not hearing him, “that you’re ten times more likely to get laid if you have a Mybook?”

“Why don’t my statuses get likes?”

“It also says here,” his brother continued, oblivious to David’s questions, “that if you have less than one thousand friends on Mybook, it’s a sign of low self esteem, anti-social behavior, and other psychological issues. How many friends do you have?”

“Nine hundred, ninety-nine.”

“I think you have problems.”

“Shut up!”

“It also says these people are more prone to anger.”

“Damn it, Jason!” David slammed his fist on the desk. “What does having one friend less than a thousand matter?”

Reading aloud from the magazine, Jason said, “‘They tend to be in a constant state of denial as well.'”

David sat his chair upright and slumped into it, burying his face in his hands. “Why am I so unpopular?” came the muffled cry.

“Maybe you should see a therapist,” Jason suggested. David ingored him. He was lost in his thoughts. For the last few days he had been making Mybook statuses that no one liked. One status read:

“Got accepted in to Most Prestigious University!” No likes or comments. It was a lie anyway. Another read:

“Got a job working at America’s Greatest Restaurant!” No likes or comments. That one wasn’t a lie. He was a dishwasher. Another status:

“Parents got me a new car!” No likes or comments. That was partly a lie. It was used. Out of desperation he made the next status:

“Went to the doctor’s office. Was diagnosed with skin cancer ):” One like. Davide swept his arm across his desk, knocking everything off of it, and then flipped it over in a blind rage, screaming like a maniac. “They say,” Jason said, unperturbed by the display of anger, “that lack of likes on Mybook is the leading cause of domestic violence.” Though what Jason forgot to mention, by fault of his ignorance and brotherly antipathy, that Mybook unpopularity was the leading cause of self-immolation among young adults. It only occured to him that his brother was in danger when he heard his mother let out a blood curdling scream a few days later. It came from the backyard. Jason jumped down from the top bunk and flew out of his bedroom and down the stairs. When he got to the backyard he found his mother staring at David, and he back at her. Only his eyes were glassy, face pale and expressionless. David looked down upon them and didn’t say a word, or even acknowledged that they were there. He twisted slightly from side to side as the wind blew. His mother weeped, and the tree limb groaned, unwillingly bonded to rope and flesh.

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