There are words and pictures in my skin and I’m feeling
powerful tonight. The tattoo, on day two, is at its puffiest, so when I rub the
clear, antibacterial liquid hand soap into its lines, my flesh is braille. I’ve
posed for pictures never taken in my webcam, in my mirror, in the reflection
provided by the glass of a front-loading dryer. I can’t get enough of my own
image. I’m in awe of my changing body, as it ages, as it tones up, as it
bloats, and I’m aware all the time of the passing of time and how much more I
have of it before I’m gone. What I’m doing with it while I’ve got it. I’d
rather spend my time alone.
Facebook has become a really comfortable way for me to carry
on relationships with people. I’m one of those users who posts, like, a lot.
Not that I have to justify my behavior, but here’s the reason: I am basically
involved in a monogamous, long-term relationship with Facebook. I’ll read for a
while, get on FB, clean my apartment for a while, check FB, go to the gym, FB,
make food, FB… It’s not that I don’t have a life; I do stuff. It’s just that
instead of sharing what I do with a partner who’s down the hall or across the
table, I’m sharing it with my FB friends.
