Facebook Quitter

Facebook made me want to kill myself.

Why?

When I conjure the idea of Facebook, I see all those women and their ubiquitous pictures of the fungible children they adore gushingly . . . all those dudes with their arms around pretty girls, both smiling into the camera, certainly mere hours from The Big Sloppy Hug That Dan Never Gets . . . all those humorous, personal thoughts that I put out there, and I would get two "likes" from the same two people—my personal thoughts receiving no other response at all from a community of hundreds of people who called themselves my friends . . . trying to connect with women I wanted to sleep with in high school/college and not receiving any replies there, either . . . seeing a running list of things my friends were doing with their lives, all the parties and celebrations and dates and occasions they were partying and celebrating and dating and occurring . . . while my life continued to turn to ever-uglier shades of pathetic oblivion.

"I'm proof that my parents loved each other, even if only briefly; 

do you have any proof that anyone has ever loved you, Dan?"

I have no job, no girlfriend, no wife, no children, and very little reason to live.

To me, Facebook might as well have been called "Sour Grapes."

So why would I stay? I had nothing to offer others, and they offered nothing to me but a daily series of reminders that everyone is up to something substantial in their life while I could best be described as an amalgam of Charlie and Frank from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

"We connect on so many levels! 

Do you connect with anyone on any level, Dan?"

Back in college, one of my roommates said, "Dan, you know how they say there's someone out there for everyone? I really don't think there's anyone out there for you."

So far, he's been right, and Facebook was just further proof. Six years and 500 million users, and not a single connection.

So . . . I contacted Facebook and asked that they permanently delete my account.

Now I have a blog, in 2011.

I wish I were dead.

An Introduction

There are Physicists, Abolitionists, and Lyricists . . . 

I am a Throwist.

Randy Johnson, a fellow Throwist, exploding a bird

I was an all-state pitcher in high school, I am one of the best backyard-football quarterbacks in the history of human civilization, and my modesty could not be contained in ten trillion universes.

I have deadly range with a basketball, I once threw a playing card so fast it got stuck in Jimi Hendrix's forehead (well, a picture of him, on a very hard cork board), and my brother once opined that I "could throw a Dixie cup through a filing cabinet."

My body speaks fluently the language of The Throw.

"So you might be a Throwist, good sir," you might very well say to me as we embrace warmly on the street, "but can you Kick?"

CAN I KICK?!

Why, any simple fool knows that Merriam and Webster—those sodomites—both squarely and unabashedly defined a kick (n.) as "a Throw, with the Foot."

Jesus Himself could not field one of my Punts—so high do I blast them!

Yes, I am a Throwist. Whether I die today or several trillion years from now (with the right mental attitude, both are equally possible, literally) I will have lived to this point in my life as a Throwist, and for that you should thank me. Without people like myself—and I admit there are others—human Throwing abilities would be so underdeveloped that I wonder if our species would even still exist.

A Throw, with the Foot

Fortunately, Humanity, you have me and the other Throwists here to save you from extinction, and we'll all be fine as long as you remember The Pact:

You continue to aspire to throw like us, and we'll continue to throw like gods.

(By the way, Jesus Himself is a dude I know—not Christ. Jesus Christ could certainly field one of my punts; in fact, He could turn one my punts into many punts, for all the needy punt-returners in the world.)

In conclusion, all I'm trying to prove here is that women should be a lot more attracted to me than they seem to be.