Anatomy of your Facebook Account

Say you've met someone new. The setting is somewhere socially acceptable (or if it isn't, lie): a dinner party, on campus or waiting in line at Starbucks (mutual bitching creates a bond like no other).

Now, they appear to be fairly normal but you size them up anyway (please, like you're some chump that's going to end up on 60 minutes?), searching for signs of Creeper Eyes and Predator Breath. As the conversation continues, you squint at their jacket, assuring yourself that the pockets are far too small to contain weapons with sharp edges or towels soaked with chloroform.

After you have conducted your extensive Mean World Syndrome search, you can only conclude that the person you are speaking to Seems Like a Nice Person.

Okay cool. So, add me on Facebook? ^_^

I can usually gain an accurate insight into someone's personality by browsing through the anatomy of their Facebook account. I've deducted through the years that our accounts either represent who we are or who we want to be. I will never base you on the actual contents of your account but your decision to release them.

As much as we can bitch and moan about Facebook's privacy issues and selling our data for the GDP of a third world country, they do offer you the opportunity to place your account on virtual lock down. We just don't take it.

There are five integral elements to a Facebook account:

1) Profile picture
2) Photo albums
3) Status Update
4) General information
5) Wall posts

Everyone should know this unless you've lived under a rock circa Zuckerberg Invasion. In fact, if it's a particularly funny-shaped rock, I'm sure it has its own fan page.

The ideology behind Facebook is sharing. We're a network. We see a fat bird, people must know. Some idiot is peeing in an alleyway, people must know. I've reached a life-changing epiphany, people must know. Some lunatic smashed into a fire hydrant and water is now spewing everywhere like a Coca Cola ad: PEOPLE. MUST. KNOW.

Facebook is successful because it capitalizes on our innate need to share what we see, what we know, what we've done and what we're going to do.

The ultimate irony is that a system utilized for the purpose of sharing, connecting and networking is so frequently slaughtered over privacy issues. Facebook is not without its flaws (many. many. flaws) but over the years, they have definitely upped their game by allowing us to customize our privacy options.

I'm not saying it's your fault if some crazed maniac has hacked into your account and is now informing everyone that you about to undergo a sex change and would appreciate donations. It's also not your fault if some creeper has your profile tabbed under their bookmarks and checks it every hour on the hour for updates.

However, when you've placed information on your account that is viewable to the general public, you have little right to complain about ~ privacy issues ~ if someone brings it up later.

If there are unflattering pictures of you pole-dancing in a boa after 10 shots of tequila, you can untag it or ask your friends to delete the images. If you've kept it under your images, then I presume you want people to see it.

If you have willingly uploaded pictures under general viewing, then do so at full discretion that people might look at it later.

Don't complain to your friend about "_______ knew I went to Hawaii a month ago. What a stalker" when you've bombarded our mini feed with status updates, day-to-day photo albums and a profile picture of you in a hula skirt eating pig on a stick at a Luau.

It's human nature to crave attention and it is a ridiculous notion to deny it. If you have selected a profile picture of you posing in a loincloth bikini, that is what you want people to see. If you have selected a profile shot of you airbrushed to inhuman perfection, that is what you want people to see. Don't pander with false modesty by replying to positive comments with "Oh, I don't look fabulous/plucked to perfection/toned within an inch of my life. I just like the setting".

A picture is a thousand words and within it, speaks a million more about who you are as a person. The information that you allow on your account are indications of who you are. The words you use and the content within it are indications of who you are.

If you don't want certain people to see your images, cut them out. If you don't want certain people reading your status, make a group, deny them access. If you don't want your messages to show up on a mutual friend's mini feed, take it to private messaging.

It's not Facebook responsibility to protect you. There are always going to be pitfalls to every system. If you're not willing to take the time to ensure your own privacy, then don't blame others for perceiving you in a manner that you have chosen to portray.

What stimulates you?

Every one has a thing

You know, a fixation, an obsession, something that excites you, sends you to your happy place and causes damage to your bank account.

For a lucky few, it's something economical like collecting seashells or rare pennies. I mean, 5 pennies on a 100 % inflation rate/decade and you might be able to exchange it for a Trenta sized drink from Starbucks.

My mother, for example, loves dolls and figurines. I can't blame her since she was a teenager in the 1970's and still likes wearing her pants up to her waist to this day. However, buying those creepy little dolls with the fluttery eyelids, the enhanced Megan Fox eyelashes and the bejeweled eyeballs makes her really happy.

Fact: Everyone is a consumer

This isn't negotiable (unless you're on Extreme Couponing) - we all buy things. The one piece of information I retained from Economics (besides how much I hate economics) is the principle of Utility.

Utility, as defined by wikipedia (please, like I could actually pull the definition of Utility off the top of my head) is "the measure of relative satisfaction". In layman's terms, economic behavior is determined by our attempts to stay in our happy place.

Or as Liz Lemon says, I want to go to there.

For me, it's blush. A new blush makes my eyes round and sparkly like Sailor Moon when she sees Tuxedo Mask. This, for example is my newest acquisition. It's Makeupforever's HD blush in Nipslip. (Please forgive the tiny black stripe on the left hand corner that throws the picture off)


It's all about perception. My mother stared at it and said. "Oh, it's pink"

No, Mother. It's not pink. It's a delicate peachy color that blends beautifully for that glow from within look. It's perfect for summer and makes me feel like I can wear a white dress and run through meadows, stopping only to feast on a picnic of honeydew and fresh pears.

Our personal fixations usually stem from a function. This is then followed by a positive emotion that reinforces the function and justifies our fixation. In some weird situations, this is what turns people into hoarders and collectors of lint.

If you really want to go deeper, I believe there is an emotional connection buried within our fixations. Sometimes it's elicited from childhood memories, sometimes it works to soothes our insecurities and boost our confidence.

The point is, we're on the pursuit of happiness and at some point or another, we've done it through purchasing things. Everyone has a fixation, you have to. The economy is dependent on what you like, how much you like it and how much more of it you want.

As long as you're not hoarding tin cans, buying $160 worth of blush at the same time and collecting used gum, I think its safe to like something if its function is to make you happy.

And no, that's not an excuse so I can buy Mac's blushcreme in Posey.

Theories and Concerns: Why are birds trying to kill me?

Fact #1: Birds hate me
Fact #2: I hate birds, but only because birds hate me

No, I'm not delusional, insane nor was I dropped on the head as an infant (although I did smash into the corner of a coffee table, resulting in a scar at the edge of my left eye), this is ~ srs business ~

When I was around 8, my parents and I used to live in downtown Toronto (I know, so hip for engineers) and after dinner, we would go for a walk around the Eaton center. This one day, I remember watching a pigeon fall from the roof of the tunnel that connected Eaton's to the Bay.

As a vapid little child with delusions of saving every creature in the world, I immediately ran towards the fallen creature (cue slow motion with dramatic music) and for a few seconds, watched helplessly as it struggled to retain its balance -- before a car smashed it into bloody pile of feathers within 5 inches of my face.

Oh.

Cue tears, crying, trauma, drama, blood on shoes (yes, the splatter went that far), more crying, etc etc. I basically made a huge fuss of it.

That night, when my mom manipulated coddled me to sleep, I told her through heaving sobs and leaking snot that I never wanted to see a bird ever again.

I'm sure my mother thought I would have gotten over it. Instead, 14 years later she still a 22-year-old kid who glares at pigeons and refuses to walk near them.

Ever since that Pigeon Incident, I've seen deceased birds at least thrice a week. Every time I see one, disgruntled irritation would diffuse my permanently neutral expression and I would feel annoyed at the lack of coolness of my wretched gift.

Why couldn't I have been blessed to see discarded pocket change on street corners? Instead of free coffee, I get to see a wide variety of avian creatures in varying stages of decay. I swear to god, if one passed away during winter and was buried under a sleet of snow, the universe would arrange it so that the sun would beam upon that one snow pile, causing it to melt and reveal the corpse just as I was walking by.

Then there are the bird attacks.

The balding and obese pigeon who lives in the Union Station that flies across my face on a daily basis

The seagull that won't leave me alone

The mass amount of bird followings I get despite the fact that I HAVE NO FOOD ON ME

My only justification is that in a previous life, I was a pterosaur and that birds (both deceased or alive) are attracted to my presence out of ancestry.

Anonymous and synonymous

"Why don't you have pictures of yourself on Facebook?"

Ah.

If an Angela FAQ is ever to be constructed (and this will never happen because there will never be enough demand), this question will most likely be situated at the top of the page.

So why don't I have pictures of myself on Facebook?

Reason #1: I don't know how to pose in pictures and most of the time, end up looking constipated and confused. I feel like this terror must never be unleashed upon the world.

Reason #2: I'm an alien

Reason #3: How do I put this nicely?

Well, I can't.

So a condensed version would be: "It's none of your business"

It's really no one's business what I look like, what I do during my spare time, who my best friends are, who my boyfriend is, what events I attend, how I act in front of a camera, if I go to parties, where I work, etc etc.

For clarification, I don't judge anyone who does upload their social activities on facebook. I don't believe there's anything wrong with wanting to share with other people. Sharing is how alliances are forged, relationships are strengthened and TMIs become the root of a blossoming friendship.

I am a proud and unabashed lover of Facebook, lurker of many photo albums and creator of many mundane statuses.

For me, Facebook serves these following functions:

1) Keeping in contact with my high school friends
2) Making quick plans for lunch
3) Communicating with good friends who have moved away
4) Making observations through my statuses
5) Uploading sporadic images of objects / events that amuse me

If the function determines the product, I can very safely say that pictures of me are not necessary when I'm uploading pictures of a particularly fat pigeon.

The advantages and pitfalls of being really really tall

"Wow, you're really tall"

Yes yes.

At 5'11, that is usually the first comment I receive when I am initially introduced. I've heard it so frequently in my 22 years of existence that I often feel compelled to retort in the form of "OH MY, THIS IS BRAND NEW INFORMATION".

But I won't.

Because I'm a sweet and innocent creat - well, no not really. Mostly because I rarely express any visible emotions.

Now back to the height issue. There is just something about my proportion and and body structure (lanky with long legs and an admittedly slender frame) that tricks people into thinking that I am over 6 feet tall and thus, a creature of amazonian height.

Over the years, I have deduced 3 primary pros and cons to being my ~ excessive ~ height.

Pros:

1) Ability to breath within tightly confined spaces.

I am highly claustrophobic. I believe the only thing saving my ass from a complete and utter melt down on the TTC is my ability to retain some semblance of ~ fresh ~ Toronto air.

Also, the title makes me sound like a super hero.

2) Towering over people.

Both a pro and a con. In fact, this straddles both categories and often slips from one side to the other.

So when exactly is it a pro?

Only when you meet the acquaintance of someone easily intimidated and feel the need to express this in an indirectly negative manner. In this case, I will stare you down until you feel like a gremlin.

I believe in respect or at the very least, retaining enough respect to feign respect. If you don't have the decency to treat others as equals, I see no wrong in using my genetic advantages to teach you a prepackaged lesson.

3) Hanger type body structure makes clothing easy to find

While there are some cuts that I cannot wear (for example, tops cut tightly against the shoulders that makes me look like a line backer), for the most part I am well-proportioned enough to pull off most generic store items.

There are moments where I curse my ~ man shoulders ~ and wish to be a reasonable 5'6 but reasonably speaking, I don't have grounds for complaint.

Cons

1) Inability to wear heels without being over 6 feet tall

I've worn heels twice in my life. Both times involved people cranking their necks up to speak to me. I don't aspire to have a life where people complain of whiplash after talking to me.

If complaints are filed against me, I would prefer it to be about:

(a) My sarcasm
(b) My dry wit
(c) A combination of both with a hefty side of Awkward.

2) Having people ponder over your height upon initial introduction

This is especially terrible in China where they feel obligated to state the obvious.

"Oh my, you tall"
"Oh tall girl"
"Oh, you giant" (of course I am, in a country where the average height is 5'3)
"Oh, when you going to stop growing?"

Answer: Ne-vair. Not until I reach the skies and flounce around bouncy clouds.

3) Towering over people

I don't seek to intimidate everyone.

Only those who deserves the looming wrath of my dollishly empty stare.

Diary of an Iphone Addict: The buzz

source

As the owner of an Iphone 4 for nearly a year now, I believe the buzz is what defines our emotional / physical / psychopathic connection to our devices.

The Iphone Buzz is what I refer to as that strange tingle that rattles our pockets and vibrates our desks. It piques our interests, disrupts our train of thought and directs all attention to the Valley of Unknown Messages That May Or May Not Need Our Immediate Attention.

Unfortunately, The Buzz also picks up its share of useless emails. For example: Viagra advertisements, constant promotions from Coach despite my sole purchase of a cute keychain 2 years ago, gardening tips (O_O. Qué ?), promotional dog food , etc etc.

In my epic battle to detach my conditioned senses from my iphone ("No, Angela. You do not need to drop the dishes and run halfway across the house to where your phone is placed because The Buzz has picked up a new Ebay promotion"), I have placed my phone on silent for the past week. This means I am no longer notified of messages or emails with a mnemonic sound that sends me cavorting across any spatial capacity to check my phone.

Today, when my phone lit up with a new message, no longer did I feel that odd tingling that compelled me to read or reply the message in immediate detail.

I felt calm, collected, cool as le cucumber, thank you.

Improvement, I say.

Pathological Angela Issue #1: Time

I have what I like to refer to as a Time Thing. If I have to be at work by noon, I'll wake up at 9:30 am. My hours are planned in increments, split into quarters and timed by halves.

This is how my morning rituals are planned:

5 minutes: Stare blearily at buzzing iphone, check text messages, exhale irritably at the spam for viagra discounts in my inbox.

5 minutes: Turn on Mac, open the last episode of Friends I was watching, let load.

15 minutes: Wash face with Cetaphil Gentle skin cleanser, wrench contacts from sci-fi looking contact holders, rub a pin sized dot of glossing cream through hair, pull said hair into ponytail, head back towards bedroom.

15 - 20 minutes: Moisturize, apply light coat of tinted moisturizer (or foundation, depending on mood) with Mac #187 small stippling brush followed by a bit of Mac Creme blush in Lady creme with Stila #21 double duty cheek brush. Pulls hair from ponytail, finger combs it, dot on latest favorite lip product, done.

Will take an extra 5 minutes to do eye make-up if resembling Death. If not, a brush of mascara will do.

20 minutes: Breakfast usually consisting of oatmeal or cereal while snorting dorkishly at the Friends episode that was loaded earlier.

10 minutes: Getting dressed. I have a classic wardrobe and a good physique maintained by calorie control and healthy foods. This is the easier part of my routine, the only downside is when my jeans look yucky from the snow.

5 minutes: Ensuring that phone, wallet, keys, gum, lip balm, hand cream (compulsory in Canadian winter) are all at hand before departing through the door.

20 minutes: Walking to campus. Despite the fact that I can see campus from my house, it's unfortunate that all my job / classes are situated in the middle of campus. Factor in the snow and poorly routed walk ways, it takes 20 minutes for me to walk to school.

After composing this list, I can only conclude that all watches must be taken away from me in order to preserve my sanity.

The Man on the Bus

There was a man on the bus today. His eyes were an incoherent blue, sticky like crayons that had melted in the sun.

When his girlfriend spoke to him, the dots in his eyes shifted like lights dancing across his iris.

Drug users live in an odd world. Sometimes I wonder if it's nicer in there.