From the mind of Myron:
Year long book/diary project: collect all status updates for a year.
#
That was about the time we all decided to kill Myron. Tempers had been high since he insisted that although I’d broken up with my girlfriend until I changed my relationship status it hadn’t really happened. That it was “confusing to everyone… even after I explained I’d been on a three day bender as a result and couldn’t “give a fuck” about what the internet said. His intention to document his status updates (such as “mmmm pecan date long,” and “leaving work early. Shhh, don‘t tell anyone!!!!”) for some kind of, as he put it, “cultural posterity project” was the last straw.
Every since the sixth grade he’d been a pain in our collective balls, women included (ovaries substituted for balls if so desired), which is about the first time we met Myron. Myron Vidilie Jango. He used to put his hand down his pants, rub his sweaty bits, smell the hand, and look at you grinning, saying, “Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.”
As kids he was an unavoidable aspect of our daily lives. School and having moved into the neighborhood near us made Myron our friend by proximity. He was always around, so he just happened to be a part of the scene. In high school, we all went to the same public child prison; and although the social realities meant we could cut him out of our lives, stories about Myron from elementary schooled could only be proven by inviting Myron to parties. We kept him around as proof of his behavior and existence. Consequently, he thought us better friends than we ever were, however, somehow prolonged exposure to Myron made us numb to his -- one time Myron suggested we all buy a van in order to car pool to school.
He followed a few of us to college, and visited those who went elsewhere, usually at their request to, again, unknowingly validate claims about him.
Eventually, we found ourselves adults, if not working together, living in the same neighborhoods. And Myron was always there… like a cancer grown into a little brother.
Shockingly, Myron loved the internet. He spent hours a week on message boards, in chat rooms, instant messaging, searching for phrases and words that popped into his head. He’d come to school on Monday and tell us about numbers and keywords, “Two million for paella? Paella?” I can still see the incredulous look on his face none of us shared. Hell, most of the time we had no idea what he was talking about, but that didn’t stop him from going on. The dam might have burst then if Brad Wilkens hadn’t figured out how to get Myron to download us porn. (Mainly we just drugged his drink and used his computer. That being said, Brad was the one who, not only, figured it out but managed to regularly get the pills we needed.)
But in the twenty-first century, social networking ended the will not to kill.
As previously stated, Myron took to the internet; and in the era of social virtual life, he belonged to MySpace, Facebook, Linkedin, Groupon, Live Journal, MyChat, 2nd Life, Virtua-Neighborhood, Digital Connection, Friendster, the V.W.W.A. (Virtual worldwide Amalgamation), every Yahoo group, and received email notifications about every blog he heard about (though he never had his own site. He belonged to Youtube but only to comment).
When the dam finally broke we put Myron in a sack and beat him with socks full of batteries till he was no more. We then confessed to the crime, provided video tape and other proof of all that was Myron, and were promptly acquitted.
Yet, we still talk about Myron from time to time. He was around too much, too long to ever be out of our lives. So, in a way, he’s not really gone… fuck.
Year long book/diary project: collect all status updates for a year.
#
That was about the time we all decided to kill Myron. Tempers had been high since he insisted that although I’d broken up with my girlfriend until I changed my relationship status it hadn’t really happened. That it was “confusing to everyone… even after I explained I’d been on a three day bender as a result and couldn’t “give a fuck” about what the internet said. His intention to document his status updates (such as “mmmm pecan date long,” and “leaving work early. Shhh, don‘t tell anyone!!!!”) for some kind of, as he put it, “cultural posterity project” was the last straw.
Every since the sixth grade he’d been a pain in our collective balls, women included (ovaries substituted for balls if so desired), which is about the first time we met Myron. Myron Vidilie Jango. He used to put his hand down his pants, rub his sweaty bits, smell the hand, and look at you grinning, saying, “Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.”
As kids he was an unavoidable aspect of our daily lives. School and having moved into the neighborhood near us made Myron our friend by proximity. He was always around, so he just happened to be a part of the scene. In high school, we all went to the same public child prison; and although the social realities meant we could cut him out of our lives, stories about Myron from elementary schooled could only be proven by inviting Myron to parties. We kept him around as proof of his behavior and existence. Consequently, he thought us better friends than we ever were, however, somehow prolonged exposure to Myron made us numb to his -- one time Myron suggested we all buy a van in order to car pool to school.
He followed a few of us to college, and visited those who went elsewhere, usually at their request to, again, unknowingly validate claims about him.
Eventually, we found ourselves adults, if not working together, living in the same neighborhoods. And Myron was always there… like a cancer grown into a little brother.
Shockingly, Myron loved the internet. He spent hours a week on message boards, in chat rooms, instant messaging, searching for phrases and words that popped into his head. He’d come to school on Monday and tell us about numbers and keywords, “Two million for paella? Paella?” I can still see the incredulous look on his face none of us shared. Hell, most of the time we had no idea what he was talking about, but that didn’t stop him from going on. The dam might have burst then if Brad Wilkens hadn’t figured out how to get Myron to download us porn. (Mainly we just drugged his drink and used his computer. That being said, Brad was the one who, not only, figured it out but managed to regularly get the pills we needed.)
But in the twenty-first century, social networking ended the will not to kill.
As previously stated, Myron took to the internet; and in the era of social virtual life, he belonged to MySpace, Facebook, Linkedin, Groupon, Live Journal, MyChat, 2nd Life, Virtua-Neighborhood, Digital Connection, Friendster, the V.W.W.A. (Virtual worldwide Amalgamation), every Yahoo group, and received email notifications about every blog he heard about (though he never had his own site. He belonged to Youtube but only to comment).
When the dam finally broke we put Myron in a sack and beat him with socks full of batteries till he was no more. We then confessed to the crime, provided video tape and other proof of all that was Myron, and were promptly acquitted.
Yet, we still talk about Myron from time to time. He was around too much, too long to ever be out of our lives. So, in a way, he’s not really gone… fuck.
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