332.0: I hardly know this person.

Because if you made a book of what really happened, it’d be a really upsetting book.
—Angela Chase, My So-Called Life

Dear Linc,

There was an article about this in some magazine some short time ago — maybe it was The Atlantic, or Harper’s — and this is what the article was about: the strangeness of Facebook “friends,” many of whom are barely acquaintances. Specifically, the article dove into the subject of someone’s death, and how the author could not properly express her (I think the author was a woman) condolences because she, quite frankly, didn’t know this person she was Facebook “friends” with. How could she? What could she do besides strike the keys on her keyboard, dole out the quickest and broadest set of polite words and then hit ENTER? If I remember correctly, she even agonized over typing anything at all. What would be the point? Would it even be appropriate? They hardly knew each other and yet there they were, connected because of Facebook, because of technology, because of culture and trending and the forward movement of things. 

I was thinking about that when one of Mary’s friends — who, I believe, is not even one of Mary’s friends but actually a friend of one of her friends — posted some bad news about a family member. It’s in my nature to say “I’m sorry,” but before I sent that message in response to the post, my first thought was: What do I say? And in the split second that followed: I hardly know this person.

These are the kinds of problems that are sent over the internet with the hashtag marker #firstworldproblems.

I was reading an article from the Chronicle about the team’s varying public responses to this whole Melky Cabrera thing. I can just imagine Buster Posey being really pissed — well, okay: more accurately, I imagine him being pissed when he was giving the reporter his public comment. I can’t even begin to imagine how he, or the rest of you guys, actually reacted. For you, my hunch is that it could go one of two ways: either you shrugged it off and moved on, or you let loose a zillion cuss words. (I remember hearing once that you’ve got quite the mouth on you, sir.)

I have a full shift today. Eight hours. My dream job is also deepening my prolonged and perpetual existential longing. Often I find myself wondering what I’m doing there, but then again I wonder what I’m doing anywhere. I’m as adrift as I was in the halls of my middle and high schools. I thought I’d be past all of this by now. Alas I am not and the difference between now and then is the awkward duality of laboring along with youthful angst beneath the accumulated experiences of so-called adulthood.

Joe