Facebook Now vs. Facebook In College

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Everything has changed since college. Gone are the days of skipping class on a whim to hit the pool with morally loose babes. You have real responsibilities now. No longer can you shamelessly binge drink and partake in promiscuous sexual activity with total strangers. Judgment from your peers would be swift and harsh. There was a time when you regularly crushed beers until the wee hours of the night before passing out in the front lawn. Now you’re lucky if you make it past midnight at the bar. The younger version of you was barely fazed by the most horrifying of hangovers. Now it takes a 5-Hour Energy, three cups of coffee, and a slap in the face to get you going in the morning. Everything is pathetic.

There is one thing, however, that never fails to serve as a constant and annoying reminder of your irreversibly aged state: Facebook.

In college, every chick’s profile picture was a wildly inappropriate display of whorishness. Those betches were in the prime of their physical lives, flaunting their unworn bodies all over the internet. It was standard protocol for some girls to change their prof pic to a new and equally arousing photo multiple times a week. Every time you logged on, there were scantily clad coeds making kissy-faces with their seductive girlfriends all over the fucking place. Not anymore.

Now you’re greeted by a highly disturbing photo of a woman who is so pregnant she is literally about to explode. She updates her Facebook status multiple times a day to let you know how the pregnancy is going, giving details that not even a medical doctor would be interested in. The baby just kicked you in the lung? Better tell the world. Wouldn’t want anyone to miss out on that momentous event.

Maybe that pregnant she-beast was hot in college. That makes everything about this situation worse. Watching a girl you would’ve done anything to bone morph into a robust machine of reproductivity can cause even the most mentally tough man to slip into a dark state of depression that can only be remedied with hours of pornographic entertainment.

Some preggo ladies get right to the point by making their profile picture an image of their sonogram. Yep, there it is. That’s a human life growing in her uterus, and you took a shot of tequila out of her belly button during spring break of sophomore year, you disgusting son of a bitch.

Speaking of spring break, it no longer exists. When it did, Facebook was nothing but pictures of girls in bikinis frolicking on the beach, making out with each other in hot tubs, and doing upside-down beer bongs while their nipples desperately clung to their swimsuits to avoid being exposed to the world. Getting on Facebook during the weeks following spring break was like hitting a softcore porn site.

Those truly were the glory days, when the only thing you had to do while creeping on a chick to determine if she was hot was browse her most recent “SPRING BREAK!!!!!!!!” or “SUMMER!!!!!!!!” album.

Fast-forward to present day, and you’re flooded with photos of friends on vacation with their spouses and mutant offspring. Unless you’re an incredibly shameless creeper, and have continued to friend request 18-year-old slampieces as a sociopathic postgraduate, bikini pictures are few and far between. Most postgrad girls go out of their way to avoid posting any photos of themselves in swimsuits, and on the rare occasion that they do, the photos are cropped to be as unrevealing as possible. It’s a fucking nightmare.

When it comes to events, in college the only invitation you ever received on Facebook was either to formal in New Orleans, or some other party where you were destined to get shitfaced and grind genitals with a member of the opposite sex. Those invitations were awesome.

Now you’re invited to John’s 30th birthday party at a bowling alley. Wow. That sounds exciting. If you RSVP “Maybe,” you’ll only confirm to everyone that you’re a flakey asshole. But if you hit “Decline,” John will know you don’t give a shit about him as a person, and eventually he’ll probably follow you home from work and murder you in cold blood. Better to not respond at all, and let that invitation fade into oblivion after the event expires.

Halloween parties in college were unbeatable. Mean Girls almost nailed it in saying, “Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.” The one discrepancy is that in college, Halloween isn’t limited to one night; it’s a week of parties. The girls at those parties are wearing what you’d expect strippers at a strip club to wear on Halloween. And just like spring break, pictures of those girls are splattered all over Facebook for your personal enjoyment.

Now the only Halloween pictures you see are of your coworkers being lame in the office. There are few things more depressing than the corporate Halloween party where Tony from accounting is dressed as Waldo, and every single person has to get a picture with him to post on Facebook including the caption “I found Waldo!”

Speaking of holiday theme parties, Christmas parties in college were usually themed with awesome double-meanings like “Dreaming of a White Christmas,” where everyone in attendance did cocaine and had sex in a pile. Seriously though, those Christmas parties in college were an incomparable, alcohol-fueled celebration of the fact that you had survived another semester on campus, somehow managed not to get kicked out of school, and were still living the best years of your life totally uninhibited.

Your company Christmas party is the exact opposite. You can actually hear your coworkers getting fatter as they slurp down slabs of ham, guzzle nonalcoholic eggnog, and inhale red and green jello. David from sales complains to anyone who will listen that he can’t afford everything his kids want for Christmas in a pitiful attempt to ease his holiday season anxiety. You’re obligated to ask every single employee what they are doing with the 3-days of vacation, including Christmas Eve and Day, that your boss so graciously gave you. The only photos that show up on Facebook are incredibly awkward, and you probably untag yourself.

In closing, postgrad Facebook is shit. If you’re not on Twitter, you’re missing out.

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Ross Bolen

Ross Bolen is a New York Times Bestselling author, co-host of the Oysters, Clams & Cockles: Game of Thrones podcast, co-host of the Back Door Cover sports podcast, 2017 Masters attendee, bigger and more loyal Rockets, Astros and Texans fan than you, cheese enchilada aficionado, and nap god.

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