Facebook invited me to the party two days before the event. I felt like an afterthought but what the heck, I said. I’ll go. To be honest, I was surprised he’d friended me. We’re not exactly on good terms.
He greeted me at the door wearing a dark blue tie twirled with a barber pole of baby blue Facebook logos. His shirt sleeves were rolled up twice and he carried a navy blue blazer over his shoulder, his new corporate costume. “I see you brought your posse, Twitter. The more the merrier.”
I fluffed my ironically cut, jet black, citrus scented hair with baby bangs and blew through my lips. “Pfff. Them? I don’t know who they are, but they follow me everywhere.”
He bored me for a few minutes with “There’s a problem with our analytics and algorithms. Gotta run to a board meeting and take stock of the situation but I’ll be back later. Let me know what happens. I can trust you, right?”
My girls and I sashayed into the room, our black legs legging from group to group, baggy sweaters ready to hide secrets and shake them out later. Our skillfully highlighted cheekbones shimmered in the low glow of dozens of tiny blue screens. We buzzed around the party in yellow Vans picking up bits and pieces of IMPORTANT INFORMATION to share. The room was full of Facebook’s besties. I tingled. This was gonna be a good night.
Someone banged on the door, rattling the keys hanging at the entrance. Before anyone could answer, WhatsApp slouched in. He had a Moses effect on the room. “S’up,” he said in a world weary way, adjusting his backwards planted hat and pushing down his already perilously low slung pants to show off his boxers printed with green speech bubbles. He rolled through the crowd weathering the storm of the party, a cocky 21st century sailor riding the media waves.
In the kitchen, I watched him put the moves on a pretty girl wearing a Victoria’s Secret one and done flight-suit with a zip front and drawstring waist – all the details he wanted. Instagram greeted him with her pouty lips, hands on hips pose, her pert nose raised at just the right angle of haughty perfection.
She leaned over the counter, showing Linkedin how to hand letter his business cards to make them insta-worthy. As he wrote his name in orderly block letters, assertive but not aggressive, she purred “Perfect.” He brushed the collar of his slate blue suit and bent down to flick a fleck of Cheeto from his warm brown Oxfords.
Over in the corner Snap Chat sat by himself, naked except for some conversation starter knee socks. I was gonna say “Hey” but he suddenly disappeared.
Me and my posse had had enough. Boring, boring, boring. But then, what do you expect at a Facebook party? We crunched across the potato chip strewn room, into the hall. That’s when I saw Instagram and WhatsApp at the elevator door. They were octopusing each other. I heard him whisper “Let’s create our own start-up.”
“I can picture it,” she panted eagerly.
The elevator doors opened and swallowed them both with a ping. The last thing I heard was “Going down.”
But you know all that now, don’t you?