Thomas Wictor

I never had any interest in Facebook. A few years ago I opened an account under a pseudonym because I wanted to find out what happened to the youngest ghost of my life. After I discovered that all my worst fears for her had come true, I didn’t do any more Facebooking until I created a business page to sell books. The way search engines work, you have to have Facebook, Twitter, and Google+ accounts in order to achieve higher rankings. Along the way I’ve met a handful of people whose posts I like to read, but the reason I went to Facebook was strictly professional. And it worked. I got fans!

This post is dedicated to one fan in particular. He writes me personal messages, such as the following.

See, he friended me based on music, but now he hates me because I don’t agree with him politically. He has a particular hobbyhorse that he uses to try and distract himself from the fact that someday he’s going to die; I’m now an expert on that type of person, and my fan is one. When I didn’t agree with him, he said I’m stupid and uninformed. I don’t know this guy at all, so his opinion of me is completely without value. However, I wanted to see how hysterical I could make him by simply disagreeing.

After I posted links to articles disproving his pretty-shiny mortality-distraction, he unfriended me in spectacular fashion. I didn’t even notice until later.

But he still monitors my posts to make sure that I don’t say anything double-plus ungood. Even though he unfriended me, he comments on what I post to other people. So today I asked him to please not engage me anymore. Here’s part of his response.

Actually, no. I don’t keep track of stuff like that. Besides, this is Facebook! Like I said, I’ve cyber-met a handful of nice people, but they have actual FRIENDS who they meet in person and go out to dinner with and support in times of crisis. I’m a Facebook contact, that’s all.

I’m not a nice person to assholes who call me stupid and uninformed just because I disagree with them. Why should I refrain from speaking my mind to monomaniacal weirdos who I don’t even know and who invited themselves into my life and then proceeded to insult me? Also, I’m oriented toward abusers. When I’m nice to people, they assault me. My fan is a perfect example of that dynamic.

There are tons of beans I could spill about the completely horrific behavior of those I considered genuine friends, but what would be the point? I’m oriented toward abusive people. They are what they are. Dave, The Best Therapist in the World, told me that my orientation is too ingrained, and that the best I can hope for in life is to recognize that once again I’m enmeshed with an abusive creep and then disengage more rapidly.

After much practice, it now causes me no discomfort whatsoever to jettison abusers from my life. Here’s one secret to happiness: When people do or say certain things, you no longer have to care about their feelings. Their actions or words have revealed them to be nightmarish swine who don’t deserve any consideration.

Well, I don’t know if he does or not. His avatar is some tweenie fantasy masturbation-idol. And are there tramps with homes? Personally, I think I look more like Neptune.

When I was three weeks old, I looked like Truman Capote.

In high school I looked like Father Guido Sarducci, one of Mom’s favorite TV characters.

She called me Father Sarducci sometimes.

The day I graduated from college, I looked like Groucho Marx.

Groucho is the author of a great quote, apropos to my hate-filled fan: “Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedies.”

I told my fan that he needs to stop picking fights with me. If he doesn’t, I’ll give him the Mike Albee treatment. What I mean is I’ll post everything he’s said to me, using his real name, and I’ll implement my search-engine optimization (SEO) techniques to make sure that the first hits people get will show him as a lunatic.

You’ve heard of Field Marshal Bernard “Monty” Montgomery? Well, if you search “Bernard Montgomery Munich 1945,” the FIRST IMAGE is my photo of Monty awarding the Order of the British Empire to my Great-uncle Major Curtis Yarnell Kimball.

That’s how well I now understand SEO. I’m sort of hoping my fan won’t give up. Here’s what he wrote earlier.

You know what’s amazing? He told me he paid into Social Security for forty years. That means he’s at least fifty-eight years old.

Now you see why I’m apolitical? This is a grown man. His politics have made him into a berserk toddler. My brothers and I used to fight in the car; we had this thing where someone would hit someone else, and then the one who got hit would hit back, making us “even.”

“Okay, now we’re even. Ow! Why’d you hit me? We were even! Now I have to hit you again!”

We were in elementary school. That was our excuse.

“You lost. Just stop typing and it will end.”

Okay, now I’ll stop typing. And then I’ll press “Publish.”

Your theme song, my fan.