Social networking is brilliant isn’t it? The perfect place to watch what your friends do, stalk your Ex’s new girlfriend to make sure she’s not prettier, thinner or blessed with a bigger rack and check out just how hot that guy who messages you is. In other words it really should be renamed ‘Stalker networking’ because lets face it; guilty as sin aren’t we? Don’t shake your head either, you know you do it. We have the world of personality and images captured within a single page on the internet. Assuming by now you understand I mean Facebook, it’s plain to see someones characteristics and just how much of a total twat they are buy a quick glance over their profile. So when it comes to stalking, why hang around their house at 4am wearing non-squeak shoes and a balaclava when you can access all information sat at home with a cup of tea and some Jammy Dodgers?
One of the best has to be the ultimate stalk of the Ex. You try restraining yourself, not wanting to know the answer that is running riots in your head and throwing post it notes everywhere with all these new concerns. Is she beautiful? I bet she’s really thin, tanned with amazing legs and perfect perky tits. Is her sex better than mine, I mean I always thought I was the queen of blow jobs…etc, etc, your stupid brain ticks over with a million destructive questions about this new princess that has clearly shit on everything you ever were. Bitch. I bet she even has an amazing job and a million friends that kiss her ass a million times a day. I hate her. So what do we do? Yes, that’s right – Facebook stalking just got invented.
First things first you find his page. You just know she’s going to have “liked” everything he does (because girls are idiots like that) OR he will have the typical “is in a relationship with…” (insert her name) and voila you can click straight through to her life story. Unfortunately some of these new girlfriends don’t like to share so have created a profile that can only be viewed if you are her “friend.” Which you don’t want to be of course. Eating your own vomit sounds better than becoming this little Miss Perfects new best friend. Anyway, back to where we were, some of these newbies love to share everything with the world and allow you to access everything they ever do. This is where you start to become nauseous; not being able to make out her features in her profile picture as they have their tongues down each others throats means you are yet to view her physical beauty. I hope she’s shit in bed.
Upon refreshing the page to ensure you missed nothing, you notice the wonderful time they spent here, there and everywhere thanks to the marvelous invention of being able to ‘Check-in.’ No one cares. Really, they don’t. Obviously they had an amazing time because they spent most of it on Facebook commenting about how much fun they were having. *Feels smug* so what do we do next? Time to see the real deal. Lets do this. Clicking on the photos tab, it always seems to take forever to load as you wait in anticipation to see who you have made out to be Miss Universe in your crazy mind. Eventually the photos load and all you can muster, incredibly is “oh.” Pressing on the photo for a close up you think, really? He thinks she is sexy? Hold on…moving on through the photos you think that was just a bad shot; Surely she doesn’t look like a dog trawled through a pigs trough? You check another, zooming in as closely as you possibly can with todays technology. Yuk. She even has a spot as big as Africa on her chin. Basically she is not at all what that overactive imagination of yours conjured her up to be. Lets not lie, it is an awfully smug feeling you get when you see he clearly couldn’t punch above your weight. Who cares if she’s a Rabbit in bed, when you’re that ugly it doesn’t matter. Victory at last.
Admittedly this is morally wrong to stalk through an innocent girls profile who is probably incredibly lovely (no, no she can’t be) and completely smitten with this complete dick you kinda liked. Oh well she can have him, time to stalk this super hot guy I met last week.
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