The Worst Kind Of Facebook Rape

One of the great things about Facebook, for me personally, has been the ability to reconnect with old school friends. The chance to see if my predictions of where people would end up are anything close to the reality.

I’ve gotta be honest. Nothing gives me a greater thrill than glancing over the profile of a girl who spurned me all those years ago and being able to think to myself…thank God I avoided that.

You bet I’m a man to hold grudges. When I look back on high school romance, the term “a joke” springs to mind. Especially in my case. But it was a joke that meant something in my blazer and tie. So if the cutie from my class didn’t respond to the suggestion that I actually quite fancied her a bit, then I’m definitely going to remember.

It’s petty and childish, I know. I dare not even wonder what the same girl would think of my own profile if she saw it now. You know, with the thousand plus photos of drunken shame, unmissable Stella red eye and countless shenanigans where I nearly always look awful. Facebook has opened up all new doors of voyeurism in to the lives of people we’d barely call acquaintances if we landed on the same god damn dancefloor.

Not only do I enjoy peering in to the love lives of the ones that got away, but I also love to Facebook stalk those who weren’t so lucky. The amount of times I’ve found myself flicking through my ex’s latest tagged photos surely can’t be healthy. I even go digging through status updates. The slightest hint of dissension in a new relationship, I want to hear about it. The briefest lapse in sensibility, the smallest sign that she’s still thinking about me…I want to read about it. Not because I genuinely care, but because I’m a nosy bastard who likes to pry. Does that make me a bit of an arsehole? Probably.

Anyway, my Facebook creeping backfired on me quite spectacularly the other day. I’d been sniffing over a former lover’s wall for no reason in particular when the pizza guy turned up. I dropped my laptop in the living room, probably not assuming that my housemates would be in any rush to use it.

By the time I’d come back, I had no reason to be suspicious. The laptop was where I’d found it, but there was a nasty looking smirk on my friend’s face. I’m used to getting Facebook raped. There’s nothing cooler than logging on to your mate’s computer and leaving a dirty great status update for the rest of the ‘Book to laugh at, right? The trouble is, people know to assume that Facebook Rape has taken place.

When my friend had stolen the laptop, he’d done the unthinkable. There was no status update. No dodgy wall posting and not even the slightest hint that anybody else had jacked my page.

So when my ex texted me a few hours later asking why I’d poked her, I could have let the ground swallow me whole. I swear to God, there is nothing worse than subtle Facebook rape.

It’s the kind where the recipient doesn’t even know that it’s happened, but somebody out there…somebody you really don’t want to show weakness to…is left wondering why the hell they’ve been dragged in to your fun and games.

I could just imagine her questions. “Does he want me back?”, “Has he realized how much of an arsehole he was to me?” …”Does he think a single poke is enough to get me back in the sack?”

I’m telling you, people. Subtle Facebook rape is definitely the way to go if you’re looking for what I’d call the beetroot effect. The oh my god, you didn’t.

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