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Facebook wants to use you to carry the advertising message to all of your little friends.
Pretty sinister development if you ask me, and one that clearly violates a tenet called the Right to Publicity that I ghostwrote about at great and exhaustive length.
In other news, I backed into a ditch disguised as a snow bank last night and couldn’t dig myself out. Tried for an hour. Less than stellar end to a less than stellar day – I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t keep firearms in the house. Seriously, I would have walked inside and very calmly and unemotionally shot myself through the head.
Instead I called Ben – in some ways the equivalent of shooting myself in the head – and he and Robin spent another hour futilely trying to dig the car out, and then because Ben really is brilliant, he found a board and managed to do something with it – voila! the car was free.
“Wow! I am impressed,” I said and kissed him on the cheek. “And grateful. Thank you, thank you, thank you! What can I do for you?”
“Oh, just practical application of the laws of physics,” Ben said. “Happy to be of service, ma’am.”
I went back inside and proceeded to cry hysterically for an hour and a half while Robin circled me perplexedly. “What’s wrong? The car’s fine now. The car’s okay. What’s wrong, Mom? Talk to me! I love you very much –“
I really didn’t know how to stop or what to tell him. I thought about how little patience I had at his age with my own crazy mother. I was tempted to scream, “I can't do this anymore!” only of course, I can and of course, I will – because really, what other options do I have?
And now it's fucking snowing again...
Pretty sinister development if you ask me, and one that clearly violates a tenet called the Right to Publicity that I ghostwrote about at great and exhaustive length.
In other news, I backed into a ditch disguised as a snow bank last night and couldn’t dig myself out. Tried for an hour. Less than stellar end to a less than stellar day – I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t keep firearms in the house. Seriously, I would have walked inside and very calmly and unemotionally shot myself through the head.
Instead I called Ben – in some ways the equivalent of shooting myself in the head – and he and Robin spent another hour futilely trying to dig the car out, and then because Ben really is brilliant, he found a board and managed to do something with it – voila! the car was free.
“Wow! I am impressed,” I said and kissed him on the cheek. “And grateful. Thank you, thank you, thank you! What can I do for you?”
“Oh, just practical application of the laws of physics,” Ben said. “Happy to be of service, ma’am.”
I went back inside and proceeded to cry hysterically for an hour and a half while Robin circled me perplexedly. “What’s wrong? The car’s fine now. The car’s okay. What’s wrong, Mom? Talk to me! I love you very much –“
I really didn’t know how to stop or what to tell him. I thought about how little patience I had at his age with my own crazy mother. I was tempted to scream, “I can't do this anymore!” only of course, I can and of course, I will – because really, what other options do I have?
And now it's fucking snowing again...
