The Incoherent Panda

The Mother of all Mother’s Day Stories

DATE: JULY 7TH, 1992

Sunny let out a sigh of relief as her husband and mother left the hospital room. She was finally allowed some time alone with the two pink sacks of meat she had just given birth to.

Her twin babies.

In her left arm Sunny held her firstborn; a big-headed, grinning miniature of a person who seemed happy just to have made the cut. Though Sunny would never admit this out loud, he looked like one of those spermatozoids that had gotten lucky; much like a one-flippered seal who beat all the others to shore because he was coincidentally at the right place and time to catch the biggest wave.

In her right arm, Sunny held her daughter, who, in contrast to her twin brother, seemed calm and poised. Less than two hours had passed since her birth and she already seemed bored out of her mind. Like she had already been here before.

Again, in stark contrast to her big-headed brother, who was staring at the white and sterile ceiling with unabashed awe.

Sunny had already tested her twins just as her mother had instructed her. She had gently placed a finger into the palms of each of her newborns’ hands to see how they’d react. The girl had answered with a firm grip. Hello there, mama, her grip seemed to say. A pleasure, I’m sure.

When Sunny did the same to the boy, however, his eyes shot wide open and he started floundering like a flamboyant fish on dry land. Oh my God, what the fuck is that?! Get it off me! Get it off me! . . . .Wait, no! I change my mind! I think I like it. Please, come back! Put it in my mouth! Please! Come bahaaack!

Sunny couldn’t help but being distraught. She had done everything right. During her entire pregnancy, she made sure to eat a lot of fish. She hadn’t allowed herself so much as a sip of alcohol; she hadn’t touched a cigaratte. Hell, she had even made sure to stay away from people who did. Basically, she had been as healthy as the human biology would allow. So now, as she looked at her baby boy, a single, terrifying thought wormed its way into Sunny’s mind – one she wouldn’t dare share with anyone.

What if, despite all my precautions, I’ve still managed to bring yet another idiot into the world? What if—

Her train of thought got derailed as the lights in her hospital room suddenly went out. The howl of the wind outside was suddenly deafening now that darkness and dead silence reigned inside. Sunny turned to the window, where the wind seemed to howl the loudest, and that was when she noticed him; a figure outlined by the lights outside. A man squatting on the hospital’s window frame; his long leather jacket gleaming as it whipped behind him.

How long has he been sitting there?

‘Hello, Sunny,’ the mysterious man said, in a deep, bottomless voice. He jumped off the sill and landed with a thud. Heavy boots echoed into the room as he approached the bed with steady, determined steps. He was an odd sight; a giant with nothing but a leather jacket wrapped around his muscular upper body. He wore crimson shades, even though it was night. The giant came to a stop at about four feet distance from Sunny’s hospital bed and clasped his hands behind him. With his square jaw set into place and his eyes hidden behind the shades, he was an imposing figure indeed.

Sunny felt the wind get knocked out of her as she thought she recognized him. ‘Are you . . . Arnold Schwarzenegger?’

He nodded with a perfectly square grin. ‘Yes,’ he said, with a deep, emotionless tone.

Sunny frowned. There were so many questions she felt needed to be asked. ‘But, Arnold, you look much older in person than you do in your movies. And why do your pants appear to be a couple of sizes smaller from the knees down?’

He scratched his head. ‘I . . errr. . . these are skinny jeans. They haven’t been invented yet in your time. But in my time, everyone wears them. Those who don’t wear them . . . well, they don’t get to be governors.’

Sunny didn’t understand what any of that meant, but she somehow doubted it could spell anything but bad news for her and her twins. She made a quick sign of the cross and whispered a prayer under her breath.

‘What is it you want?’ she then asked.

‘I came for the child,’ Arnold said, without hesitation. ‘Many years from now the world will be thrown into chaos. I am among the last of my kind, and in a last-ditch effort to reverse our misfortunes, I have traced the desolation back to its origins. It seems that everything leading to the great desolation had started here, with this creature you’ve birthed today. Your child was already too powerful for me to stop in my time and that is why I’ve traveled back into the past – to make sure I stop this madness before it even begins. For the good of the many, your child will need to be sacrificed.’

Sunny brought her hand to her mouth, eyes wide with horror. ‘You’re talking about murdering an innocent child, you monster! . . . No! I won’t let you get to her!’ She pulled the girl closer to her breast.

A cold grin wedged its way into the man’s square jaw. ‘It’s not her I came for,’ he said. ‘I came for him.’ He raised a finger to the boy, whose head was currently lolling around in the nook of Sunny’s arm at the complete mercy of the forces around him, much like a bobble head on the dashboard of a jeep trekking up the Andes. The boy still wore that dumb grin on his rounded face as his head rolled in his neck’s joint, drool seeping out  the corners of his mouth. His sister, on the other hand, was giving Arnold a hostile sneer.

‘Are you sure it’s him?’ Sunny asked. ‘I mean – Lord forgive me for even saying this – look at him. I can’t imagine him ever growing to be a threat to anyone but himself.’

Arnold took yet another step closer. His jaw clenched in anticipation, and in his intensity, he spoke in a barely perceptible accent. ‘There is no doubt in my mind. Your son may look like an idiot now – yes, he will look like an even bigger idiot ten years from now – but that is because he is a slow grower. And that will be his greatest disguise, because his off-the-charts incompetence will cause everyone to underestimate him. Puberty won’t hit him until he’s well in his mid-twenties and when it finally arrives, the potential that had laid dormant all this time will finally surface. He will turn into one of the most influential writers of his time. He will join arms with a beast that is half-shadow and half-light. Together, they will destroy the world with parodies and puns.’ Arnold’s eyes glazed over in horror. ‘So many puns . . .’

‘You’ll be doing the world a great favor if you just throw him out the window right here and now. The future will be a much better place without him. You have to believe me on that.’

Sunny looked at the baby in her arms and still had a hard time imagining him ever accomplishing anything remotely close to what this man from the future was suggesting. She could only envision her son going from a glue-sniffing boy to an armpit-sniffing teenager to a forty-three-year-old single man still living with his parents while working the drive-thru at mcdonalds. Anything beyond that seemed like a stretch.

But still . . . this was Arnold-freaking-Schwarzenegger. And if Hollywood movies had taught her anything, it’s that he’s usually the good guy. And that’d make the little idiot she now held the bad guy in this story, wouldn’t it?

Arnold took another step forward. He was now so close she could practically smell the protein shake on his breath. His jaw widened even further as he grinned in anticipation, his lips parting slightly as he sucked in a deep breath. A lion, ready to pounce.

Seeing this as her last and only chance, Sunny reluctantly let go of the boy, who bounced off the side of the bed before tumbling and falling to the ground. With her freed hand she reached under her pillow and grabbed the bag of fun-sized snickers bars she had stashed there (having been on a strict diet for so long, she had been planning on enjoying a hell of a cheat week). With one swift flick of the wrist, she tore the bag open before slinging it at Arnold’s agape mouth. The sack of snickers hit target as it sailed right through his open mouth and lodged itself into his throat. She prung to her feet, and with the girl still in her other hand, Sunny used her free hand to punch the bag of candy so far down his throat that he was forced to swallow it lest he choked on it. Arnold grabbed his throat while collapsing to the ground, and Sunny – with the momentum of her attack still carrying her forward– followed suit.

‘Nooooooo!’ Arnold screamed. He folded on the hospital tiles and started convulsing in terror. He clawed at his face. ‘No! No! No!’ His words were edged with agony; it filled the room with a cry that sounded more animal than human. Suffering in its most primal form.

Tears started rolling down his chiseled face. ‘My gains . . .’  he whispered. ‘You’ve ruined my gains . . .’

It was a strange and uncomfortable sight; to see such a big, powerful man reduced to tears. It took him a good while to gather himself and clamber back to his feet. Arnold was now towering over Sunny, who had remained on the floor. ‘I’ll have to return to the future,’ Arnold said between sniffs. ‘I can’t – I won’t – allow any more losses to be made. Ugh! I don’t even want to think about how many empty calories I’ve just consumed. Tomorrow I will head back to the gym and start the long process of reverting the damage you have inflicted on my cutting-phase today. I know I was about to kill your baby and all, but still. Not cool.’

He turned his back to her and started walking away before stopping dead in his tracks. He looked back at Sunny over his highly defined shoulder. ‘It’ll be back . . . day,’ was his final words, as a bright beam of light flashed all around him, enveloping him before taking him away. Sunny was left alone on the floor with only half of her twins in her arms.

Sunny turned around to the boy she had dropped  – the one who’s supposedly going to turn the entire world on its head one day – only to see him sprawling on the floor like a tortoise turned on its shell. He was clawing at the air above, seemingly frustrated that he was unable to get any purchase on it. Sunny brought her hand to her mouth in horror as she now noticed a huge dent in his forehead. It hadn’t been there before, had it?

She started to fear that by dropping him she had broken her own son. But then again he had acted imbecilic from the moment of birth, so it was hard impossible to tell whether the damage done by the fall was responsible for his current behavior.

In the end, Sunny thought, only time will tell. Till then, all I can do is be the best mother I can possibly be. She was dragged from her thoughts as she noticed the boy put his own foot into his mouth. She smiled at the adorable sight – for about two seconds, because he then started to choke on it. But even as he was choking, he kept trying to shove the foot further down his throat. Sunny sighed and carefully and patiently removed his foot from his mouth.

‘I’ll love you unconditionally,’ she whispered as she wiped his drool-covered toes off with her hospital gown. ‘I’ll love you always, my darling, because Lord knows if anyone else will.’

Picture of said boy, several years after the incident
Picture of said boy, several years after the incident. Needless to say very little had changed.

5 Tips that Will Help Get You Into Shape for Summer

As any fitness magazine will tell you: spring is the season where your self-loathing goes from general discontent to a level of disgust that could only be described as having Madonna’s reptilian tongue in your mouth.
And if I have but one complaint in this world (though rest assured I have many more), it would be that a fit and healthy lifestyle is so damn expensive to sustain. Between gym membership fees, expensive supplements and psychotherapy, I can barely scrape enough money to make it rain at McDonald’s on alternate Sundays.


Since any penny you can spare is a valuable one, here are five fitness tips that will help you get into shape without any additional costs (except for your time, of course).

It’s been scientifically proven that the cycling-swimming-running format is the most efficient one, because sitting on a bike for over an hour will have your balls tucked all the way up into your abdominal cavity. It goes without saying that this will reduce the drag during your swim. And fear not: the bounce in your jog will (hopefully) have your marbles back down in place by the time you cross the finish line.

Disclaimer: this tip has only been tested on men, but I suspect it works differently for women. I can only speculate since the female anatomy eludes me.

Because full-on rage at the entire universe is probably the best pre-workout out there.

Honorable mention: having a gym partner who doesn’t watch Game of Thrones and who loves ranting about the fact that he just “doesn’t see what all the hype is about”.

There’s no entrance fee, and you’ll be able to get in about 10-to-30 minutes of quality workout before cops arrive because several parents have reported a strange dude doing pull-ups on the monkey bars and dangling junk in front of five-year-olds playing in the sandbox below.

As a bonus, you’ll know when it’s time to switch over to cardio when the men in blue start chasing you.

You can sell the eggs and use the money to buy yourself some cookies ‘n cream flavored protein powder, like every other normal person living in the 21st century.

Laughing at bad form is a great way to get those six-pack abs you’ve always wanted.

The Ten-Step Academic Writing Process

Anyone who has ever written anything remotely academic has undergone the same exact writing process. Without exception. Anyone who claims to have deviated from the following 10-step process is not only a boldfaced liar, but probably also someone who hates baby pandas.

Scenario: A bachelor student – let’s call her Jill – had just gotten the green light from her supervisor to start on her thesis, the proposal of which is due in two weeks’ time. Jill, being a motivated student, decides to start on the very first day. Unbeknownst to her, she ends up walking through the ten-step process of academic writing.

You got this shit, Jill.

Step one: First she stares at a blank Word document, without blinking, for fifteen to twenty minutes, depending on what feels right to her.

Step two: She then proceeds to write down her first sentence. It’s going to be generic and cliché; starting with something like “As recent studies suggest . . .” or “As the world population continues to grow . . .” or “[Object of study] has been gathering more and more interest of late . . .”

Step Three: She deletes the first sentence because while it was (probably) grammatically sound, it didn’t actually communicate any thought.

Step Four: Jill repeats steps 2 and 3 between six and twelve times – again, depending on what feels right to her.

Step Five: She suddenly remembers her best friend’s aunt had posted a picture on Facebook and she had forgotten to like it. It’s a two-second task that requires her immediate attention. And also, it takes two hours.

Step Six: A determined Jill finally closes the Facebook tab and stares at the still-blank Word document. For half a second.

Step Seven: Jill takes a well earned break.

Step Eight: Jill returns from her break. Two weeks later. And her deadline’s less than an hour away.

Step Nine: A mental clarity dawns on Jill in what can only be described as divine revelation. Suddenly everything clicks into place, the stars align and the universe reveals the path that had been hers for the taking all along. An ancient energy now courses through her veins and words finally start pouring over the blank emptiness. Her fingers move over the keyboard almost of their own accord, every key she hits, an explosion of pure cosmic enlightenment. Basically, she’s shitting academic rainbows.

Step Ten: She submits her proposal one minute before the deadline with a click of the mouse. She then leans back into her chair and wonders, really wonders, whether she had crossed that invisible line that separates referencing from plagiarism.

Explaining Easter to an Alien

After a prolonged hiatus, the IC has risen from its temporary grave on the third posting day, which is not unlike [FILL IN BLANK].

The reason behind my absence is pretty straightforward; I made history by being the first human to ever make contact with an extraterrestrial being (considering that junkies and hippies hogging airtime on National Geographic are not biologically recognized as human beings).

Teztcl (name of said alien) and I became best buds over the course of our time together – until yesterday when I totally Judas-ed him by selling him to Donald Trump, who had been in dire need of lizard skin ever since its synthetic exodermic film started rejecting human grafts.

Teztcl is the kinda homie you would have deep three-a.m. conversations on a Tuesday with, and we’ve spent a great deal of our time together discussing the intricacy of the noble human race – all of which has been recorded for future exploits, of course.
The following is a transcript of a dialogue that followed shortly after our initial encounter.

Me: Okay testicle—

Teztcl: Teztcl. My name is Teztcl.

Me: Yes. Testicle. I know you’re new to Earth and all, so I’ve taken it upon myself to teach you about our ways. My wisdom is infinite, so feel free to ask me any question you’d like. Anything at all. Go on.

Teztcl: Why did you request anal probing?

Me: *coughs* Ahem. Next question, testicle.

Teztcl: You have Easter marked on your calendar. What is this Easter?

Me: Excellent question, testicle. Easter is the day we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus our Lord and Savior by going to church for the first time since Christmas. Afterwards we get wasted in front of the TV while the kids are outside searching for chocolate eggs they believe a bunny has stowed all over the garden for them to find. Spoiler alert: there are no eggs. It’s just something that keeps the kids busy on a holiday that inconveniently overlaps with March Madness.

Teztcl: That makes no sense to Teztcl. My computer cannot find any standing relationship between the return of Jesus and biologically incorrect bunny that lays eggs. You pretend to be celebrating one thing but your actions suggest that you are actually celebrating something else. This is what you humans call, a sham, no?

Me: *shakes head condescendingly* No, testicle. We call it Easter.

The Secret Red Ribbon Society of Doom

in a small nobody café located in a small nobody town, the ladies of the Secret Red Ribbon Society of Doom were holding their annual brainstorming meeting.

They were the only costumers, and a pensive silence had befallen the table while the winter wind outside howled into the night.

‘I got it!’ Edna, the fifty-nine year old tea shop owner by day, said.

Jacquelyn placed her tea cup on the saucer and squinted at the old gal, her eyes narrow out of general disbelief as well as a dire need of stronger prescription glasses. ‘And what is it you’ve got, Edna, besides a bad case of arthritis?’

Edna wanted to bite back but she held her tongue out of common decency. Also, it was hard to defend herself when she’d spent the last fifteen minutes trying to pry her fingers away from a tea cup she was still clutching awkwardly. ‘Well, have you heard about this whole Facebook craze these youngsters are on these days?’ Some nods of faint recollection here and there. ‘Well,’ Edna continued, ‘let me tell you, first of all, that the Facebook is not even a real book.’

The table stirred with gasped of outrage, but Jacquelyn motioned them to silence with a raised finger. ‘Go on, Edna.’

‘It’s true,’ Edna continued. ‘My granddaughter, Cindy, is on her laptop from sunrise to sunset, mostly to do the Facebook. She says she uses it for socializing with her contacts. From what I’ve gathered, Facebook is just one of many computer books out there.
Ebooks, they call ’em.’

Edna paused in order to savor this moment. The floor – or rather the table – was now entirely hers. The Red Ribbon ladies stared at her with awestruck expressions as they awaited her final revelation; just one of the many perks of being the Society’s tech genius. ‘You probably already know this, ladies, but computers can in fact spread viruses across continents.’

She paused a moment for the anticipated gasps to die down.

‘I assure you that this is all true. And my granddaughter alone has Facebook friendships in the hundreds. Hundreds! This means that we can, theoretically, engineer our own lethal incurable virus and inject it into The Facebook, thereby starting an epidemic of unprecedented proportions; a worldwide outbreak in a matter of nanoseconds! Imagine, if you can, ladies, a wave of utter devastion washing over millions of victims before they even knew what hit them. The apocalypse, finally upon us.’ Edna’s tea cup and saucer rattled as her arthritic hand trembled with excitement.

The table broke out into applause.

‘Excellent,’ Jodie said as she wiped her teary eyes with a crimson handkerchief.

‘Brilliant! Just brilliant!’ Wendel echoed.

‘Deliciously ruthless,’ Ronda added.

While the rest of the ladies of the Secret Red Ribbon Society of Doom showered Edna with praise, Jacquelyn seethed, clenching her dentures harder than her dentist would recommend. These useless, senile old bags, she thought. They are absolutely clueless when it comes to today’s modern world. She would know, being the Society’s youngest member at the ripe age of fifty-four.

‘You can’t infect people with computer viruses,’ she said, interrupting the ongoing celebration. ‘It doesn’t work like that. Computer viruses can only infect other computers. They’re utterly useless against the living and breathing.’

The mood that had been so full of hope a moment ago had died. An awkward silence had taken its place -or would have, had Rosie not been coughing her lungs out.

The silence lasted for almost fifteen minutes, and with the morale dead and beyond resurrecting -not to mention several of the members dozing off – Jacquelyn reluctantly decided to conclude this year’s meeting.

Another year had passed with nothing to show for it.

Jacquelyn flew back home the next day, to an ungrateful son and his bitch wife who thought keeping her in their dusty attic was a Jesus-esque act of kidness, and their asshole children who were always too busy on their phones, tablets and computers to spend time with grandma.

She fell asleep that night, clinging to the hope that by the same time next year the ladies of the Red Ribbon Society of Doom would finally come up with something remotely resembling a competent plan to bring an end to the world.

Before the world brought an end to all of them.

Women for Dummies: an extensive how-to guide

In paying homage to the International Women’s Day, today’s post will be a sneak peek at my out coming self-published book: Women for Dummies: an extensive how-to guide on handling the cray-cray.

Like all critically acclaimed books, it’s written for men, by a man.

I want to start out by acknowledging the many radical thinkers out there who advocate absurd notions like, “women are easy to deal with”; that all you have to do is “be there when it counts”, “listen when they talk”, “respect their boundaries” and “acknowledge that they have more to offer than being your sex vessel by night and cleaner/chef by day”. Some even go as far as to claim that “each individual woman is unique and that you “can’t just make assumptions for the whole bunch”.

Well, I laugh in your faces, sirs, ’cause if that were the case, why are so many people rich from selling men advice on women?
The inescapable truth is that we’re like apples and oranges. Except that we sometimes also have sex with one another. Men and women are fundamentally different in every way, and my comprehensive guide will break it down for you dummies out there, and by dummies, naturally, I mean men.

Below you’ll find FREE excerpts from my highly manticipated book.

Page 5. INTRODUCTION: women, am I right?
A man has to bear in mind, whenever he’s dealing with women, that the anatomy of the female brain is completely different from its superior male counterpart. The female nervous system is actually just a single, complete ring (also known as the gossip circle), which is why they only seem to talk in boring, unending loops.

Page 27. CHAPTER 7: red tidings
It is well-known that women suffer from a monthly case of possession that, for the safety of the writer, shall not be named. Though there are men who deny its existence altogether, I can assure you that this is not the case.
Much like a wolfman turns into a vicious throat-ripping beast under the full moon, so do women make similarly terrifying transformations once every month.
As a male, you must avoid its scarlet wrath at all costs, and in order to do so, there are certain rules you must never break, namely, (1) never ever, under any circumstance, speak the red demon’s name when a nearby female is under its possession; (2) make sure to offer the female chocolate, as it contains compounds that counters the most malign symptoms of the affliction, though be sure to offer chocolate only on even days of the month, when the female stomachs are connected to their hearts; (3) on uneven days you offer material, inedible things (think shoes, make-up, any Grey’s Anatomy season on Blu-ray) because on those days the female heart is linked to their vanity, and last but most importantly; (4) a smart dummy should avoid the touch of females under the crimson possession altogether, but if it cannot be avoided, make sure your left pinky toe is pointing Eastward for the whole duration of contact.

Page 132. CHAPTER 21: Positive reinforcements
The best gift a man can give a woman is unsolicited approval on their physique, be it by leaving a like or comment on a picture on Facebook or Instagram,  or by more traditional means such as catcalling on the streets.
When women aren’t thinking about what to make for dinner or how to please you in the bedroom, they’re wondering whether their current physique is worthy of your approval. That is why a complete stranger on the street telling them they look bangable is about the highest compliment a woman can ever get, so be sure to make your verdict known. Even if the female in question appears too shy to ask for your opinion outright, you must trust that she craves it.

Make sure to buy my book, available exclusively on I’maDong, and remember; these aren’t tips, they’re life-lessons towards becoming a misogyny genius, or, misogenius.

Man vs Toddler (video)

With my creative juices all dried up for the day, here’s this week’s post (read: shameless cop out).


Other People’s Advice: Where You Can Put It


It’s like an STD, in that you should always be on high alert, because there’s always going to be someone eager to give it to you.

Where there’s advice there’s usually either a self-important asshole that places too much importance in his or her  own opinion, and/or someone who lacks confidence and ends up putting too much importance in the opinions of others.

In both cases a vital element of advice-giving is ignored, namely that other people’s opinions are exactly that: theirs.

Often when people offer you advice, they’re not actually talking to you . Instead they’re  talking to other versions of themselves, and they reason what they would’ve done or wished they had done in your situation.

For someone to give you good advice, he would have to both know you very well and be able to put himself in your shoes. And you probably have a greater chance of running into the Loch Ness Unicorn at the end of a rainbow guarding a holy grail full of gold, than you do of finding someone capable of giving you proper advice.

So most advice, though benevolent in its nature, should be taken with a grain of salt, because it’s not tailored to the person on the receiving end but rather to the person giving it.

Advice is like an archeological dig on a cattle farm, in that even though 99% of what you find is bullshit, you still keep on sifting through it, hoping to find that one piece of gold that makes it all worth it.

It’s not uncommon for me to receive advice regarding my writing from people who neither write nor read (advice which can basically be summed up to: “Write shorter texts, use more cartoons, and maybe try making some video’s eh?”).

I admit that some or maybe – *gulp* –  most people are put off by the thought of having to read a long text consisting of words, and that images and videos are more appealing and digestible channels for communicating to the mainstream masses.  I’ve given this advice a great deal of thought, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it was sound advice, but only for someone who aims to please the masses.

It just wasn’t useful advice for me.

Because I like writing, and blogging is a way for me to reach out to like-minded readers and writers who appreciate my incoherent brand (if they exist, fingers crossed). I’m confident enough to know what I’m looking for, but more importantly, I’m also confident enough to listen to opinions differing from mines and to consider their validity.

Because advice is like evil twins, in that being able to distinguish between the good and the bad ones could mean the difference between success and complete destruction.

To conclude this post on a highly ironic note, I’m going to advise you on the proper protocol for dealing with advice.

Take it or leave it.

But more importantly, take it.

Scenario: you’re at the famous Office Potato Chips and Nachos Party, and George  –from cubicle B13  – feels it’s his civic duty to dissuade you from trying the dip.

Comic pt 1


Instead of just taking George’s word for it, you prod further, noting the reasons he gives for having arrived to his opinion.

comic pt 2

Only after considering this, and only then, do you go on to form your own decision.

comic pt 3

A Week Without Social Media: Survivor Tells His Grim Story

The following post contains excerpts from the daily journal held by a somewhat sociopathic soul who has turned his back to society by choosing to live in a world without social media.

Reader discretion is advised.

panda adict

Day 1, February 1st

I barely made it through Day One without social media.
Withdrawal effects haunt me. My fingers twitch involuntarily, not knowing what to do with my phone anymore. I feel out of touch with the world. I ask myself, what if, during this one-month exile, a picture of a tie-wearing cat drifts across the Internet stratosphere without anyone to “Like” it?
Have I not foregone my civil duty to acknowledge said cat picture?
The only thing I feel now is loneliness.
I knew I had hit rock bottom when I caught myself considering using my phone to make calls again. Luckily, decided against doing something so rash.
I’m desperate, but not that desperate.

Day 2, February 2nd

So this is what complete solitude feels like. To live in a dark hole beneath the ground where all the exits only lead you deeper underground. I’ve received texts from concerned friends.
They worry for my sanity, and they wonder why I’ve committed social suicide. They see my refrain from Facebook as one man’s desperate cry for help. I wonder if this is true.
May God help us all.
But especially me.
Well, mostly me.

Day 3, February 3rd

Today I met up with some friends for lunch. Had a blast. Could it be that human contact is more human when you’re actually making physical contact with actual humans? How can we possibly ever know for sure?
I was about to take a picture of my lunch when a wave of chilling realization washed over me; even if I had taken the picture, I wouldn’t be able to share it.
I wonder, if a tree falls and there is no one around to “Like” it because nobody has tweeted or posted about it − did it really happen?

Day 4, February 4th

I went to the barbershop today, perhaps just to feel the touch of another person. Maybe because I really needed a haircut, it’s hard to say for sure.
But when it rains it pours. The barber accidentally chipped off a piece of my ear with the hair clipper, and as I looked at the trail of blood trickling down my neck in the mirror, part of me became convinced that it was I who subconsciously made the barber’s hand slip and subsequently succeeding in the extremely unlikely act of cutting off a piece of my ear with a hair clipper.

Didn’t van Gogh cut off his own ear because he was forced to live in a world without social media?

Day 5, February 5th

I think I’m finally starting to get better. The withdrawal symptoms are slowly fading. I no longer feel the need to suck on that blue F-shaped cigarette. Instead I patch my boredom up by either reading books or writing or watching documentaries. I’m discovering that there are other things in the world, physical things that social media cannot provide.
This makes me feel like Columbus, in that even though I know that I hadn’t been the first one to discover this, I will dedicate the rest of my life ensuring that I will be celebrated for this “novel discovery” nonetheless.

Day 6, February 6th

I don’t usually dream, but I dreamt last night. In this dream I was a cursor, and I was scrolling down a nondescript person’s timeline, happily hovering over jumble of words attached to heavily Photoshopped pictures and embarrassingly misplaced quotes.
It felt, good.
It was only when my cursor-self clicked “Like” on a video of a ninety-year-old war veteran twerking, that my dream became a nightmare . . .

Day 7, February 7th

I had a relapse today.
I had lemon sorbet after dinner and it was actually quite nice (you know, for being ice cream’s hideous sister). Then a depressing thought came to me. If I can’t share this experience on the Internet then my dessert is deserted, which means that this hurt that I feel on this earth is without purpose.
I chuckled when I said this out loud, but by the time its empty echoes had bounced their way back to my ears, I was crying inconsolably . . .

One week down, three more to go. Will I make it?
How should I know?
I’m not on Facebook . . .

Blog at

Up ↑