Posted on April 11

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I upload a photo of sun rays breaking through storm clouds over my neighborhood but no one is liking it which is making me want to kill myself. I'm sweating. An hour passes. No likes. I delete the fucking photo.

My name is Sammy Jankis. My Facebook page says so. You'll notice that most of my profile pics are side views of my head. I do this because I look better from the side. If you look at me straight on, you'll think my nose is wide.

The lights are off in my bedroom and the shades are drawn. My face basks in the glow of the Macbook on my lap and I can barely see the faded letters on my keyboard.

I've been waiting all day for this. To be out of the musky school and bumping bodies in the narrow hallways and into my dark bedroom with closed venetian blinds and lightning fast Wi-Fi. The whole world is at my fingertips, and what do I decide to do with all that power – all that knowledge? Well, scroll through food pics and other people's selfies. What else?

It wasn't always like this. I mean, for people. In the middle ages, we were exploring IRL and discovering new lands. But everything's been discovered. Just go to Google Earth. We're exploring inwards now -- exploring ourselves and cyber space and all we're finding is porn. Food porn. Vanity porn. Good old porn porn. We're teasing ourselves with it, or torturing ourselves, depending on how you look at it. It's a big tease. I will never feel Faye Reagan's tits – no motor boat, no slapping that ass and riding the wave, no tea-bagging, no anal. It's like watching the Food Network about exotic grilled meats from Greece that I will never try. That's why I don't watch the Food Network anymore. That's why when I'm eating my boiled hot dogs and ketchup, I don't sit down and watch Bobby Flay marinate pork side ribs for two days before laying them on a wood charcoal barbecue.

Oh em gee. Bart posted the new Marvel movie trailer.

Sorry. I digress.

I blame Facebook for my A.D.D. Facebook, where so much is happening at the same time, who has time for the boring, regular, universal flow of time? I don't—not when I have timelines. I click on photo after photo, jumping from place to place – I'm in Daniel Silva's basement, I'm at Helen Choong's cottage, I'm at Supinder Dhar's pool party. I click on someone's tag, taking me to another timeline. I'm on Aaron Montgomery's page right now, I think he's in grade 10.

IRL there is only the now. There is no past IRL. I can't remember what I did last week. Without looking online, I can barely remember yesterday.

Facebook has become our memories. Instagram has become our past.

But how can you blame me? I mean, my life is on a loop. I wake up at the same time every school day. The bell rings at 9:05am. I end my last period at 1:40pm. Roberta crosses my window at 3:39pm.

Oh em gee, it's 3:39pm right now.

I hook the blinds with my finger and pull them down. Peeking out, I see Roberta Bevelaqua, like clockwork, walking from the bus stop and passed my townhouse complex with her kilt jacked up so high I can almost see ass. Hashtag her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.

And also like clockwork, the niner nerd is walking behind her like a creepy ninja. His steps are soft on rubber soles and almost tippy toeing, his eyes hold on Roberta's ass in constant anticipation of a gust of wind. I catch him mumbling through his overbite, a prayer for wind. I join him in a silent prayer, just in case there is a God. Hashtag oh my God, look at her butt.

I let myself be teased by her swaying her hips. The short kilt implying easy access to a quickie. Her red lipstick showing off what they would be good for. Everything about her implies sex. But no, I won't get any. Not guys like me and the niner. I'd be so much happier if I was born in the 1800's when women covered themselves up from neck to toe. Back then, even showing ankle was slutty. If only girls dressed like this now, then I wouldn't be so tempted to jack off. Maybe Muslims in the Middle East have the right idea. No more skin. No more Food Network. No more unquenchable urges boiling up inside me – the urge to hump that ass and to devour that Peking duck slow roasted at the hands of David Chan and devoured by Anthony Bordain. Hashtag jizz in my pants.

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