Antisocial Networking

How to not make friends or influence women

By Gabe Durán

search desperately for an unsend button. Oh no, oh no, oh no. What have I done? Damn you, Facebook! I didn’t mean it! I take it back! Maybe if I de-friend her … No, she’d still get the message. That would just make things worse. Shit, shit, shit. Well, now I’ll probably be expelled. Or at least have to go see the dean and claim that my Colombian roommate wrote it.

“Oh, man, I can’t believe you actually sent it!” Dan shouts, in horror and glee.

I lean back in my creaky wheeled chair and smile wryly. “That’ll be $25,” I say, extending my palm expectantly. I am sure I have just committed my most grievous mistake of at least this week. Collecting my hard-earned reward, I retrace my errant steps.

It started when I saw her going into the Boston College dining hall late one Thursday night. She was wearing a revealing brown sleeveless shirt and adjusting herself as she walked in. I was immediately enchanted.

“Who is that girl?” I asked Jason nonchalantly.

“What? I dunno. Who cares? Let’s go watch TV.”

“Wait. I forgot. I need to buy, um … something.” I handed him my Munchies Cheese Fix bag and marched back in her direction.

She was buying fro-yo. Oh man, that’s so hot. I hovered near the fro-yo machine, pretending to inspect fruit, which I hate and never buy. Okay: go time.

“Hi. I couldn’t help but notice you are astoundingly good looking, and probably a little drunk. We should get coffee, and then maybe make out,” I said in my head.

Brown Shirt went to pay for her fro-yo. Now! It’s now or never!

I bought an apple.

“Let’s go watch Myth Busters,” I said to Jason, who was tapping his foot by the exit.

“Why did you buy an apple?”

***

I opened my cellphone. “Ellipsis,” the text message read. This particular code was borrowed from the magnificent, Casino Royale, the James Bond film. After my roommates and I saw it, we immediately began arguing about who most closely resembled Daniel Craig. Consequently, I rushed out to get a $15 version of his haircut. The text indicated that Dan had seen one of four code-worthy girls somewhere on campus. I was tempted to ignore it, but he had already chastised me several times for this. He claimed it makes him feel creepy if I don’t respond immediately with something congratulatory. “Nice!,” I texted back. “Way to go!”

I was sitting sullenly in the dining hall with my roommate and occasional nemesis, Colombian Jon. I had not forgotten about Brown Shirt Girl, but it had been two weeks since my initial sighting and I was starting to give up hope. Maybe she lived off campus. Maybe she didn’t even go here. Maybe she was dead. A dizzying number of equally terrible explanations ran through my head.

And then I saw her. I could swear she was lit by a halo. Though maybe this has more to do with the fact that I had just finished playing the video game Halo for eight hours straight. All thanks to technological advancements and the various suddenlink internet plans that afford us this video-gaming luxury! Anyway, she was accompanied by someone I knew, and, more importantly, was Facebook friends with. Her friend was just as gorgeous, because these girls stick together like gaggles of ducklings. I fired off a quick coded text to Dan. “Ellipsis.”

What a stroke of luck! I did a mental jig, but outwardly continued to stare at her chest. I toyed with the idea of actually talking to Brown Shirt Girl, but quickly disregarded it in favor of rushing out to stalk her on Facebook.

Using my requisite college social-networking detective skills, I quickly went to her friend’s profile page. (Here was the brilliant part.) I looked through her photos until I found Brown Shirt Girl. I paused to compare myself favorably with Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t send a friend request, of course, but I did rush triumphantly into the common room to inform my roommates I had discovered her name. Jason did not look up from Myth Busters. Dan was appropriately impressed. We high-fived.

The next day I accidentally left myself logged on-not that it matters, because I always loudly recited my password as I typed it in-and Colombian Jon sent her a friend request. This was an act of revenge, because Jason and I always went into the room when Colombian Jon was in class and tried to head a soccer ball back and forth over his desk. We inevitably knocked over his pens or spilled his coffee or hit his laptop. We had finally pushed him over the edge the day before, when he got home and accused me of playing “that fucking game with the ball.” I had vehemently denied it, and acted hurt.

“I know you did it!” he shouted at me. “My calculator was on the floor. My pens were everywhere. You didn’t even try to clean up afterward!”

“Okay, yes, we did it,” I admitted. “It was Jason’s idea.”

I should have known Colombian Jon would find a way to get back at me. He’s so spiteful. As if waking me up every night so he and his ugly friends could smoke hookah and spill coals on my bed wasn’t sufficient punishment.

I was furious with Colombian Jon. Until Brown Shirt Girl accepted the request, at which point I forgave him. Still, I brought in my resident assistant Brian to consult on damage control.

“Send her a message asking her out,” Brian said.

“No way. That’s creepy!”

“No, friending a girl you’ve never talked to is creepy,” he said. Touché, Brian. He’s so smart. Damn you, Colombian Jon!

“I could even write it for you,” offered Brian. I think he had formed an opinion of my ability to interact with girls.>

Brian is much more suave than I am. Once, when Dan and I were discussing a girl we particularly idolized, Brian informed us he had dated her for a couple of weeks. We were extremely impressed. High fives were exchanged. Jason was too busy to respond, staring at the pillow on which he’d printed a picture of his girlfriend’s face.

“My secret,” Brian advised us in a whisper, “is I have no fear.”

Brian the Braveheart.

“Have no fear,” we repeated quietly, nodding in unison.

“Write the message,” I told him.

***

“Well, that was a complete disaster,” I informed Dan a week later. Dan agreed. Brown Shirt Girl did not reply. Thanks for nothing, Brian. What a dick.

“I should send her a message asking her to be in a porno!” I laughed. See full tube and its porn database for porno’s.

“I would give you $25 if you actually did that,” said Dan. Then we both laughed for a while. We find each other hysterical.

I wondered what James Bond would do. “Have no fear,” I said to myself. I mustered up my bitterness and courage and wrote her the following message:

Hey, I’m making a movie for my film class this semester. It’s called College Sluts 9, and it’s very plot-oriented. I need a really committed cast and I thought you would make a great lead. You’ll hopefully be working alongside Naughty Poppy naked, as seen online! Let me know what you think.

Sincerley, Gabe

I think the most embarrassing part, looking back on it, is that I misspelled “sincerely.” If I ever run for public office I will definitely be blackmailed. Despite the clever South Park reference (my inspiration for the film’s title), she did not find this message as funny as she should have.

Fortunately, she didn’t send it to the dean, either. She just sent me a reply calling me a creep and an asshole, which are not the worst things I’ve been called this week. I pop open a fresh bag of Buffalo Bugles and go to her pictures, looking for any friends she has who might be cute.