I used to have 617 friends.
“Surely, Pearl,” you say. “You are exaggerating. No one has 617 friends.”
“I used to have 617 friends,” I respond. “Now I have 616. And stop calling me Shirley.”
The truth is that Pearl – good ol’ Pearl! – has jumped the greased -- nay, lubed – tracks of what passes for social discourse and become, in one fell swoop, out of touch.
“Don’t look now,” writes #616, “but I had boudoir pics taken!” But she doesn’t give me time to not look now, and suddenly I am thrust – if that’s not too loaded a word – into the soft-focus snapshots of her fantasy life.
Which apparently includes wearing the equivalent of a spool of thread.
While posing upside down.
And peering from between her naughty, naughty fingers.
There she is, her own centerfold appearance.
Look. I’m all for fantasy. And I like a good come-hither look as much as the next gal. But when you’ve posted pics of yourself in a two-piece take-out container holding a pair of chopsticks – is that what that was? – it’s going to take all the reserve I have not to comment with the first thing that comes to my mind: What? Leftovers again?!
There were several of these photos, posted, one after another: different outfits, different positions, but all with the same moist-eyed, lips-parted expression.
Aren’t I pretty? Don’t you want me?
Sure you are; and no, I don’t.
I was sorry to see #616 go. We never shared a meal, laughed ourselves off the furniture, never even had a conversation.
But we will always have the fact that I know what she looks like in braided dental floss. And I guess that’s something.