A couple of weeks ago, I #tbt-ed on a Sunday by talking about the long lost – but not forgotten – AOL Instant Messenger. Messaging instantly still exists, and in many forms, but the medium that resonates most with my Lisa Frank-loving fifth grade soul is Facebook messenger. Instead of having ‘buddies,’ you have friends, and your friends are neatly piled on the side, just like they once were on your buddy list. You can talk to someone in a small window while voraciously Facebook-stalking their boyfriend in a larger one. So apparently, it seems, the overall losses are slim.
I’ve adjusted to Facebook messenger very well. So well, in fact, that I’ve come to utilize it as a stalking tool. Not a Facebook-stalking tool. Just a stalking tool. Mhmm!
I would like to disclose a couple of things with you: Firstly, do not freak out. I can’t stalk eeeeverybody with it, just with people in my, ahem, ~innermost~ circle. Secondly, I am going to tell you how to stalk using Facebook messenger, if you don’t know already, so if you are still freaking out that I am a weirdo then stop freaking out. I was with a friend last week who explained to me how she uses a combo of Facebook and Snapchat to stalk people, and it’s a lot more complicated/impressive/creepy than you’d think. So I could be worse.
We should start off by putting ourselves in a theoretical situation that incites the need to stalk. Stalking someone need not entail physical following nor pinpointing the exact location of your stalkee. Often (or for me, at least), it simply involves a lingering paranoia and an unanswered question — has he read that text?
Here is our situation: Let’s say I have a boyfriend, and my boyfriend and I got into a small, yet overdramatic argument last night. After belligerently sending him iMessages in such high volumes that legally encourage a restraining order, I received no response. It is now 11am the following morning, there is still no response, and I am very much like, “WTF is going on?”
We know he hasn’t answered my texts (fine, I called him four times, too), but we don’t really know why. Now – trumpets, please – we move to Facebook. Facebook chat used to be really annoying when it falsely told you people were online when they were really on their phones. I would get messages when I didn’t want to get them, and I would send messages when people didn’t want to receive them. Soon, Facebook made a distinction between ‘mobile’ and ‘web’ users, which alleviated this chronic social pain and increased my stalking capabilities.
Back to our situation – if he’s online, but ‘mobile,’ he must have seen my texts because he’s clearly on his phone. If he’s online, but ‘web,’ then it’s a 50/50. He could have lost his phone, which wouldn’t surprise me, or he slept in and checked Facebook before checking his texts. But he’s definitely home, so I know where to locate him if I need to show up at his house without asking and force him into conversation, or something like that.
He could be completely offline, but he’s probably not. No one’s ever ‘fully’ offline.
For the third option…Ah, the little grey cell phone. As a certain Will Ferrell character once said, “Nobody knows what it means, but it’s provocative. It gets the people going.” Will Ferrell knows me too well. Because when you think about it, no one knows exactly what the little grey cell phone next to people’s names means, but I, for one, really get going from it.
I think the cell phone tells me the last time my boyfriend was online. He may have not been online since the wee hours of the morning, which means he ignored me, went out with his friends, and is still sleeping but could just be waiting to talk to me until he has a clear mind. But LOL, right? But if he was online in the regular morning, and not just the wee hours of it, then I’m screwed. I don’t know what medium he used to sign onto Facebook with, and I don’t know where he is. I might be boyfriend-less and not even know it. Because not only did he ignore me last night, but he slept on it, and he checked Facebook this morning, and still has no desire to talk to a gem like me.
At this point, I have to put on all black, try not to let my shoulders get all knotted up the way they always do when I’m stressed, and constantly worry about what the next 24 hours of my life will be like. Of course, usually he will text me, we will kiss and make up, have a good conversation, and, in the end, I’ve played myself in a wretched mind game.
Oh, and for girls? They’re much easier to stalk. If they don’t answer you within two hours, they hate you, and that’s about it.
Ed. note: You all probably assume that this all happened last night or something like that but I promise you it didn’t, it’s simply based on the seventy other times this did actually happen.
In middle school algebra, we were taught the meaning of direct and inverse relationships between numbers. Numbers in an inverse relationship go in opposite directions: as one increases, the other decreases. Numbers in a direct relationship increase and decrease together. BFFS!
Now that I’ve defined those terms for you, you can much better understand the relationship between the reach I have to an ideal summer body and the amount of foodstagram (food + Instagram) accounts that have recently followed me. As I’m sure you can assume, that relationship is very, very, veee-rrry direct.
I’m not so sure if I’m getting larger or more popular, hopefully the latter and not the former, or if it’s becoming that status quo to have an additional, impersonally themed Instagram account in addition to your real, ‘I’m still Jenny from the block’ account. Themed accounts are like the different kingdoms of Disney World. It’s very hard to keep track of the fitness accounts, the vegan accounts, the New York food accounts, the fashion accounts, and the people who are models but also portray a healthy lifestyle of fitness and indulgence in their accounts. How am I supposed to do it all in one day? And do I need to wear one of those kid leashes disguised as stuffed animal backpacks in order to be successful in doing so?
To stir up the pot (as I tend to do well), here are some themes/lifestyles/Disney parks/things that I believe deserve a second Instagram account:
Forget ‘hot dogs or legs?’ That is not as big of a concern in my mind as how knobby/good are your knees? I always really thought that knee shape makes or breaks a leg. Honk if you agree with my theory.
Nothing is more impressive than a good makeup job that lasts for two days and worn to two occasions, something we chatted about a couple of weeks ago. So where is the account dedicated to next day makeup? Or even catchier – hangover makeover. That, like, rhymes enough.
The most necessary of them all, though, is an account that only posts photos of girls bending over tables to Instagram other people’s food. I wouldn’t just post the food that’s being falsely claimed as royalty…no, no. I would make sure to capture each girl going to a great length to take pics of food they don’t eat. That account would be legendary amongst the college-aged Jewish Greek life community, and it would be called @ItWasntMe. (And I’m only saying that because, in my opinion, members of that ‘scene’ tend to have the best foodstagrams.)
I’m def open to creating a second Instagram account, because having just one certainly does not allow me to expand my creative bandwidth as ‘width’ as possible. LMK if you have any suggestions. PLZ & THX.
Juice cleansing sucks in a really great way, and I’ll be the first one to admit that. It’s a fabulous route to de-bloating yourself the day after a binge, and the hunger you feel after a morning of nothing but massaged kale puree and a carrot/beet combo that actually may have been previously regurgitated is relieving to a tee. I’ve tried a few cleanses — some more successfully than others — but what I really want to talk about is straight up, vomit-inducing, stomach lining-burning, yoga body-loving liquid salad: also known as ‘juice.’
I have a really hard time figuring out where juice fits. I can’t swap out lunch for a cup of baby food. Maybe that works for Gwyneth Paltrow and other goop-y folks, but I am not so goop-y that I am willing to trade out lunch. There’s a reason why I frequent Just Salad: because I want just salad, and not really anything else. I’d never want to drink juice with lunch, because I’m getting nauseas by just typing about that idea and not even by really thinking about it.
Therefore, I am not a frequent flyer of the juice. I drink juice when I feel like I need it, and I need juice when I feel like I need to prove to myself that I can drink juice like a lady, and I need to prove that to myself when I consume a jar of crunchy peanut butter in five hours or less. One of my best friends always tells me that it’s ‘seriously impressive’ when I accomplish this, which is a somewhat backhanded compliment. If your friend gets her hand stuck in a jar of Justin’s almond butter, never tell her how ‘seriously impressive’ it is. Just don’t.
Two weeks ago, I decided I needed to detox (whatever that means). Let me inform you that I was wearing a pretty good outfit that day and made a semi-effort to put myself together in the morning. It wasn’t a huge effort, but it was like an extra coat of mascara kind of effort. When I left the building to get lunch, I blended in with everyone else doing their usual 1pm thang. I did my business, everyone did theirs, and no awkward eye contact that New York often thrusts upon us was made.
I went to a market on 6th Ave. that has a full-fledged juice and smoothie bar. I ordered some sort of juice that had the word ‘detox’ in its name and decided I would trust the people in charge of naming the juices to name them accurately and not just randomly. Because how much would it suck if I didn’t get a real detox, right?
So I pay for the juice, which is, in fact, green, and I leave the market…And you would’ve sworn the whole effing world changed on its axis. Yes, I’m just as narcissistic as the next millennial, but I really wouldn’t say what I’m about to if it wasn’t true. But all of a sudden, with juice in hand, people looked at me differently.
I felt like I had been given King Neptune’s crown. And yes, that is a SpongeBob movie reference. Men were checking me out, but in the ‘I love you for your personality and your work ethic’ kind of way and not in the cat-calling kind of way. Women looked at my juice and sent the same signal I’ve sent to green juice-carrying women so many times before: 1. I hate you 2. But I’m so impressed with you 3. Okay, fine, you go girl 4. Ugh you’re definitely really fit. (Ed. note: I really am not that fit at all.)
I told a male friend that I had discovered the Green Juice Effect. It’s an incredible thing: it gives you an unspoken authority and people automatically respect and admire you more. Do you know what he did? He looked at me like he had just had too large of a sip of green juice. “Shut up, Hannah. You sound dumb. Actually.”
I’m convinced the Green Juice Effect is a real thing. I mean, it makes total sense. Green juice — and other juices, too — give off the impression that you care about your body, that you’re well-off enough to buy unnecessary juice, and that you’re intelligent, in a way. Holding a green juice is the new holding an iPhone.
Has anyone else ever experienced the Green Juice Effect? Or am I going absolutely, goop-y, bat shit crazy?