Confessions of a Nerd, Volume IV

Originally published in The Righetti High School Legend, April 2009

As long as I=m being confessional, I might as well admit that as I type this piece, I am making frequent trips to my internet browser to post and chat on Facebook. This is shameful, alas, but true. I succumbed, after years of swearing to abstain from social networking, at approximately 4:59 p.m. on December 16, 2008. How that happened is a funny story, actually. I didn=t realize I was making a profile until I had almost finished it. That afternoon, I=d received an email that read ACyndi Vasquez wants to be your friend on Facebook!@ with a link to take to verify our friendship. Or so I thought. I thought I would just be allowing her to use my name in a list of friends, and I was so very flattered that I immediately clicked the link and began filling out the information on the site. As the questions got more personal than just the standard name, age, and e-mail address, realization slowly dawned upon me. But I couldn=t stop now! I=d come this far, and boy, were the years of peer pressure getting to me...

Now I have been a steady user for four months. Almost every day, I make my offering of time and energy to the Facebook gods, updating my Status Bar with narcissistic trifles; commenting on the actions of my friends; and playing pointless, yet addictive, games. Yet, for all the hours that I could have spent reading, doing homework, or curing cancer; and instead spent on Facebook, I have been, at times, rewarded.

My social life (I actually have one, now, gasp!) has really kicked off. Facebook connects me with friends I previously didn=t talk with much or know a lot about. And getting Afriend requests@ and friendly comments makes me feel more popular and likeable than I=ve ever felt before. I have enjoyed many great moments of Facebook social magic, but my space and your attention span is limited, so I=ll stick to what is probably the funniest bit of serendipity so far.

Last month, I was searching the network for Afan pages@ (basically, groups of nerds with a common interest) devoted to my favorite poets. Inspired by the romantic impulsiveness of the likes of Shelley and Byron, a long-buried wish to use Facebook to contact my long-lost elementary school crush (he moved away in sixth grade and broke my heart) resurfaced. Shaking and sweating, I typed his name into the search bar, pretending he was just another English writer or snack food (I also subscribe to the fan pages for curly fries and Oreos). And there he was, unmistakably the same boy even after seven years of separation. I dizzily messaged my friend Becky (with whom I=d just watched Dead Poets Society for the second-and-a-half time), asking her if I should send him a message, and she said ACARPEEEEEE DIIIEEEM!!!!!!@ So, I seized the day and sent him a rather self-conscious and breathless paragraph re-introducing myself. Phew!

I went to bed that night feeling giddy with satisfaction and anticipation of the reply, which was there the next day. It was genial, if poorly punctuated and severly lacking in the Aby the way, I=ve always loved you, let=s meet up again in a café and read Keats together@ department. I responded, cordially discussing our old crowd of friends and college prospects. I inevitably mentioned my love of the English Romantic poets (the aforementioned Byron, Shelley, and Keats) as I=ve been talking about them ceaselessly to anyone who=ll listen (and some who won=t) since I got into their poetry in January. His reply: AJohn keats huh? i cant get in to that guy, hes to doomy and gloomy for me, not to mention a son of a gun to comprehend.@

I exploded.

I sent the infidel a Keats sonnet that=s uplifting and sweet, trying to convince him that the poet wasn=t Adoomy and gloomy@ and besides, he had every right to be depressed, he was dying of tuberculosis at 25 and couldn=t marry his girlfriend... I quickly apologized for this assault, but apparently still scared my ex-crush away. It=s been about a month and I haven=t heard since.

I can=t say I=m terribly broken up. Finding out that he doesn=t like John Keats was pretty much the last thing I needed to get over him once and for all. In all honesty, I have a bigger crush on the long-dead Keats himself. It=s sad and pathetic, but true. I carry his complete works with me almost everywhere I go and fantasize about going back in time and curing his tuberculosis (and updating his ideas about women=s liberation). Recently, I even confessed some of these feelings on one of the many Romantic poetry-related Facebook groups I=ve joined

An unforseen consequence of this gushing was another bit of Aonly on Facebook@ magic. I actually got a reply saying Aget your hands off my man maya [sic]@ from someone claiming to be Fanny Brawne, the also long-dead fiancee of Keats. I stared at the screen in amazement for a few seconds, then burst out in guffaws. I posted the rebuttal: A...Shall I dignify that poorly punctuated attack with a reply? No, but I will. Bring it, ersatz Fanny!@ I felt both proud of my wit (Wouldn=t Jane Austen be proud! Ersatz is such a good word, means Aphony,@ by the way) and conscious of the utter ridiculousness of the situation. Here I was, in my first ever fight over the love of a boy and it was a virtual cat fight concerning a dead poet. Even Rod Serling, creator of The Twilight Zone would think this is weird

The Brawne impersonator has not yet replied to my post, but if she (or he) does, I=ll be ready to again wield the blade of superior wit. What utterly ludicrous fun! And so, despite all the time I=ve lost to Facebook, I=m glad I made an account. At the very least, it=s given me great material for this column.

"College-Level Insight" or something like it:

This piece is probably the crowning glory of my very short stint as a newspaper columnist. Not only was it a joy to write and quite well received; it brought me to a new understanding of the creative process. By this point in my career, I had begun to see my life from the perspective of a self-satirical writer -- constantly forming commentary and seizing upon irony and humor in any situation. As the events described in this particular column unfolded in real time (and I reached a new level of openness about my personal life), the resulting piece practically wrote itself.

I have certainly kept up this perspective, and accordingly my life has not decreased one jot in zaniness where Facebook, failed romance, and dead writers are concerned. I've gotten better at not shoving poetry down the throats of innocent civilians, though, and am probably much better tolerated by the majority of my acquaintances for it. I've also stopped "fanning" (though now I think it's "liking") all sorts of useless Facebook pages (Curly fries? Really? Ugh.) and only join groups in order to accomplish something tangible. Usually.