Very small fish, very big pond

The whole concept of guy-meets-girl during freshers fortnight resembles to me something similar to the horror stories I’ve heard about Chat Roulette.com, where coming face to face with a total stranger can often leave you feeling dumbfounded, visually violated or harshly rejected by a guy you didn’t even have time to feign an interest in, but whose dismissiveness somehow offends you nonetheless.

I have encountered all of these in the past fortnight, most completely harmless and to great comic effect. One guy unknowingly hit on me twice last week, the second time round having made up an entirely new life story. On another night, a really gorgeous boy pulled me over on the dance floor, his Paolo Nutini esque beauty thankfully distracting me from his use of the line: “Haven’t I seen you here before?” Not distracting enough however to mask the fact that he was wearing a white tank top and a straw hat... on the dancefloor (it wasn’t fancy dress). Did someone say deal breaker? It was such a shame. A novice in the world of casual dating, I only gave out my number once all fortnight, and two purposely ignored ‘booty call’ texts later I had promptly learned the lesson of my naivety.

All this is no credit to me by the way, I am but a very small fish in a very big pond. I was probably one of a dozen girls that our resident Paulo took a fancy to between 1 and 2am that night. I can’t blame him for the others, either. I have never seen so many beautiful girls in one room before – a guy could fall in love every night for three years here, and I bet that some of them do.

I thought I’d met my match already, when I arrived at the Superhero’s party and locked eyes with the only other Peter Pan in the room. Then I saw him in broad daylight the next day, when the white V-neck and Dolce and Gabbana belt told me everything I needed to know about that.

The thing is, I’ve been thrown in at the deep end. I’m just a girl who flirts with her eyes, someone who doesn’t have a type, who accidently imagines how a guys surname sounds after her own following their first conversation, who thinks things were simpler – but far less interesting – when you weren’t supposed to kiss on the first date, someone who gets tongue tied talking to handsome strangers despite her degree being pretty much based upon an (apparently lacking) ability to hold a conversation with anybody.

After just a fortnight at Uni I’ve realised there are only two options now, little fishes: sink or swim.

The Non-Politico

For a journo, I’m not that passionate about politics. I know who runs our country and who’s in charge in America, but I hesitate to admit that I didn’t vote all the way from India in 2010, nor did I stay up all night when Obama secured the top spot. I want to be in the loop but like so many others I am perched nervously on the outskirts peering in.

I am an outsider, I don’t speak politics. Left-wing, right-wing, liberalism, Lords, Commons, Republican, Democrat – all are phrases which instil in me the same frustration as the AS Level French I have long since forgotten. I recognise the words in context, but understand very little about them alone.

Of course I don’t want to admit this. There is an air of arrogance surrounding those who are fluent in politics which I think the rest of us find a little daunting. We think we’ll be judged as clueless if we don’t understand why they’re angry about something (and you know they’re always angry about something) so we just nod along and feign outrage until the next baffling topic comes up in conversation. In the meantime however, our insecurity and understated input can be mistaken for incuriosity, provoking dismay with those who know the ins and outs of Westminster like they know their own home.

We clueless are just as quick to judge though; those stuffy complainers going on about immigrant workers and inflation rates and how this country has gone to pot. Having been to a third world country where the sick and poor can’t see a doctor, I may never be able to tolerate complaints about our NHS, but I can understand why the Politico’s might think that my relative ignorance in their field is unforgivable.

Am I ignorant, though, just because I don’t know why Ed Balls is on the news so often, or how much fairer AV really would have been, or how to spell George Osborne’s job title? Yeah, I am. When it comes to current affairs, I read all the stories but I know nothing of what lies between the lines. That’s something I have to work on.

But I’m not an outsider like I thought. I was with hundreds and thousands of students in spirit protesting about the rise of tuition fees, I was in full support of the enquiry that followed the downfall of the News of The World just a few months ago, and only weeks before writing this, I sat and watched in shock with the rest of you as the riots wrecked Britain’s biggest cities. Evidently the political spirit is in me – it must be in all of us – but perhaps it’s a question of how well we can learn to relate to it.

In religion, there were once just believers and non-believers, but nowadays there is a much wider acceptance for those who find themselves lost somewhere outside of those two circles, peering in, looking for answers. Aside from the fact that they have to choose between the two, those outsiders are not so different to the Non-Politico’s. We’re all just trying to get by based on what we think we know for sure but we may never know the answers until we get ourselves inside the loop.

How the phone-hacking scandal silenced me

The last ten days have been some of the worst to be called a journalist.

The thickness of my skin has been tested before, but the phone-hacking scandal has changed everything.

I had previously gotten by believing it was only what I thought of me in this industry that mattered. In fact, a few months ago I ended an article with this line, which in the current context is a little too light-hearted: “For all you journo-generalisers out there, rest assured, the only thing I’ll be tapping into is my own potential.”

I thought that if I knew I would never be the reason why journalists had a bad reputation, that that would be enough. But I’m not sure if it is anymore - it could be my fatal flaw in this industry that I have always worried that I’ll be seen not for who or what I am, but as just another hack. I may know I’m not like that, you probably know I’m not like that, but aren't we all guilty of generalising?

Media ethics have faced constant scrutiny, but the downfall of the News of The World was a question of morals. It’s not the journalist’s head and ruthless competitive spirit under attack this time, it is quite seriously his heart and soul – or some people would argue, his lack of.

I can’t explain fully why this bothers me more, when I know – just  as I did before – that I’m not one who should be tarnished by the same unforgiving brush. But as the last ten days have thrust every insecurity of mine about the industry into the spotlight, like a lot of the public, I have become increasingly disillusioned.

So whilst its biggest critics have cursed the media on the World Stage, an equally damaging effect has occurred silently in the consciences of people like me, as they wonder how they can continue on a path to a world in which we are struggling to see any good.

And with all that on my mind I have become a little lost for words lately. I can’t, and I won’t, defend the actions of the people who have always put me off the idea of entering the world of journalism. And yet I don’t want to have go around shouting that the majority of us do not aspire to turn out that way. I just want to find a way to drown out the voice in my head which says people will doubt you regardless.

I’ve had to bite my tongue regarding my own insecurities about how the rest of us will be judged in the context of the phone hacking scandal. I know that by holding on to personal integrity I can remain afloat in the industry’s stormy waters. But with sharks under the surface and hunters on land, at what cost, and to what end?

Are we sick of being sugar and spice and all things nice?

“Being powerful is like being a lady – if you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.”

I have never quoted Margaret Thatcher before but I think she’s got a point with this one.

But is acting like a lady almost as out-dated as the word itself?

Are we over the expectation to be sugar and spice and all things nice?

Cheryl Cole: The Nation's Sweetheart
[Image: www.cherylcole.com]



We can’t be, when the country has claimed Cheryl Cole as the nation’s sweetheart. She can hardly put a foot wrong; beautiful, endearing and softly spoken, even when she is scantily clad she goes for sexy, not sleazy. Why has she so successfully hidden her smoking habit when the rest of her private life is strewn daily across the tabloids, if not to prevent detracting from an image not of wholesomeness – as being ladylike may have once implied – but at least of class?

But then we have also made a modern heroine of Jessie J, who in her own words sings: “I can do it like a brother, do it like a dude, grab my crotch, wear my hat low like you.” She can do the feminine look when she wants to, but she does the feisty character better – and millions love her for it.

In my mind, the debate about being ladylike is reflected in the face of Adele (below); a young woman with an incredible, heart-breaking, show-stopping singing voice, and an accent to completely juxtapose it. Hearing her speak for the first time really took me aback, but when we ordinarily admire someone for sticking to exactly who they are with a take-it-or-leave-it kind of attitude, why should this be any different?

[Youtube Video: BBC Radio 1]

Maybe we re-defined what being a lady meant around the same time as fashion mastered the androgynous look. And now we have to settle ourselves on a new kind of spectrum, based not only on how we define class, but also how you judge somebody’s lack of it.  

More than just a pretty face: Jessie J
 [Image:www.designerfashionhq.com]

 

And what we could be left with now are two types of girls; the ones that don't need to tell you that they have class and the others, who will no doubt admit they aren't going to give a shit what you think anyway.

The danger that the latter face is that a good name is always going to be worth far more than a good fortune and you can in no way trust your harshest critics to look beyond the surface before they begin to judge.

Not that it is a question of prejudice – obviously our impressions of people are most honestly based on how they act and appear to us.

But the lady-like line has been blurred significantly since old Maggie’s day when women wore sensible shoes and skirts of a respectable length.

I don't know how Lady Thatcher would feel about it, but I think we need to be seen in the context of our own generation, where it is evident that appearing to be classy and actually being respectable do not necessarily have to be seen to co-exist.

When songwriting goes bad

Lyrics are powerful things, etched in our minds and often our skin as a permanent reminder of how one song really spoke to us.

But to balance out the brilliant, there are some real bombshells dropped by sometimes some of the biggest names in the business.

And for too long we’ve let these words go in one ear and out the other. Now I’m no musical mastermind, but here are some of the lines that have been seared into my memory for all the wrong reasons.

The Lazy Song

“I’m gonna kick my feet up, then stare at the fan, turn the TV on, throw my hand down my pants. Nobody’s gonna tell me I can’t.”

Well, Bruno Mars, I normally love you and your silky-smooth vocals so much that I’m not going to tell you that you can’t, I’m just going to say it’s a little weird that you’ve decided to write a musical ode about it. And possibly even more worrying that it’s currently at #2 in the UK Top 40 singles chart.

[YouTube Video: Billboard Magazine at http://www.billboard.com/]

Womanizer

“Maybe if we both lived in a different world, it would be all good and maybe I would be your girl but I can’t, ‘cause we don’t.”

Thanks for clearing that up, Britney.

Friday

“Yesterday was Thursday, today it is Friday.

We, we, we, we so excited, we so excited.

Tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterwards.”

Frankly, as we all know, Rebecca Black – or whoever came up with this monstrosity of a song for her – is in a league of their own when it comes to truly terrible lyrics. But you know the worst part is? I don’t even care about the words anymore, I’m most annoyed about the blatant ignorance of basic grammar.

[YouTube Video: http://www.arkmusicfactory.com/]

Midnight Show

“You got a real short skirt, I wanna look up, look up, look up, look up, yeah, yeah.”

This coming from the same philosophical thinkers that brought us the line “Are we human or are we dancer?” The Killers disappoint.

Helicopter

“My piano’s out of tune, I wish it wasn’t, I wish we had more time.

I wish that my world was softer, and I want a helicopter.”

The Feeling send my head in a spin. What is this song even about? Because it sounds like a spoilt child guilt-tripping his stingy parents in a toy shop.

Firework

“Do you ever feel… like a plastic bag?”

No, Katy Perry, in fact I’d go as far to say that thought has probably never crossed my mind.

[YouTube Video: KatyPerryVEVO] 

I’m a bomb

“Dressed to kill I’ll be causing mass destruction, so shield your eyes.

I’m all steamed up and ready to blow, pressure max, meter red, overload.

To get release I gotta explode. I’m a bomb, can you hear me tick? Beware if you turn me on, there is no safety switch.

I’m a bomb, use only steady hands, to mess with me, you must be a brave man.”

We all get the message, Natasha Bedingfield, but somehow I don’t think it’s you that’s going to pose the real threat to my health here, just the sheer impact of three minutes with this one analogy smacking me repeatedly in the face. Ouch.

Remember me: the girl in the graveyard

I don’t believe in the supernatural – I’m not convinced that a shiver down your spine is the feel of a stranger’s footsteps traipsing across your future grave or that a sneeze is a spirit crossing your path.

Clairvoyance and superstition are not the reasons why I could pass hours weaving in and out of the headstones in an old cemetery.

I’m not soul-searching as I walk from row to row, learning faceless names from fading inscriptions. So religion isn’t an explanation that I can rely on as an answer in order to ease the tension for anyone struggling to understand the roots of such a seemingly gothic pastime.

I know it sounds creepy but really, it’s not. That’s just the connotation of churchyards at night derived from old ghost stories and horror films. And in any case, I’m not interested after dark.

The way I see it, in the cold light of the day, the cemetery is the world’s humblest stage for its most compelling love stories – the real ones.

Those little arching mounds of rock that so many of us bypass every day encapsulate an entire life in just a few phrases. And what’s more, they have been carefully thought up by the ones who knew and loved those people the best – the people that will probably miss them the most.

Take the time to read them and some will tell the tragedy of a missed opportunity to make amends. Others - scribed in the darkest hours of grieving – will question how life can possibly continue.

A lot of the time, thankfully, it’s obvious from the fresh flowers in front of the plaque’s bygone dates that somehow, it has managed to.

The nameless grave of poet John Keats. [Picture: Alamy]

I do believe that our grief is as important a reflection of our relationships as love is. It is perhaps down to the authors of the epitaphs which of the two they are best able to put into words at the time of their loss. And in the case of the latter, I have seen some bravely speak with fond and forgiving hind-sight, with words like ‘how blessed we were to call you ours.’

Occasionally – frustratingly – gravestones are a mystery, inscribed with an unknown quote or unsigned verse which we will never really know the significance of. But then of course, in contrast, others have been so powerful that they have become etched into our minds and our heritage alike. Take the painful irony from the nameless grave of John Keats - the young English poet widely respected only after his early death in 1821 - who chose for his final words: ‘Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.’ It was his closest friends that added the preceding lines - against Keats’ wishes - to reveal “the Bitterness of his heart, at the Malicious Power of his enemies” as the root of the poet’s sorrowful farewell.

The reality is that it all comes down to a few lines on a headstone. I don’t have first-hand memories of the people whose stories I come across – I never knew them in order to forget them but I very much doubt that their lives were forgettable.

In due course, once the authors of a loved one’s epitaph have had their own written for them, the significance of their words lies in the hands of the oblivious stranger who stands before their grave by chance. One day someone will be staring at my own. Will they take the time to remember me?

The Leprechaun vs. The Dragon

Just a few nights ago I was in a crowded pub surrounded by average sized people in giant leprechaun hats, watching jigs break out to the tune of Irish fiddles.

Admittedly the Guinness offers might have had something to do with it, but love was very much in the air for St Patrick's day. So much so, in fact, that recalling it the morning after was - like too many great parties - probably a challenge for most who attended.

And it was then that I realised that our memories of St George's day were probably equally as hazy, but for a very different reason.

I had to look it up in order to write this piece, and I discovered that the day of our patron saint falls on April 23rd this year. That's only five days before my own birthday and yet I had no idea it was so fast approaching.

So why the ignorance?

The internet nearly convinced me that the day is, in fact, celebrated. But I soon realised that the event in Trafalgar Square that supposedly draws people in from far and wide every year, had gone completely unnoticed by me until right this minute.

In reality, I can't remember any parties, festivals or even theme nights marking St George's day.

When I think of patriotism in England, I think the Armed Forces, the Olympics and the fleeting weeks during the Football World Cup in which nearly every car on the road is dressed up and paraded about in red and white flags.

Is the latter really how we can best match the Irish, with their iconic and magical mascot, happy-go-lucky attitude and drink-til-you-drop celebration?

I'm not sure the English and our stiff upper lips can compete.

But then I'm reminded of a monologue about our country that was penned by the great British writing talent that is Richard Curtis, for the token English actor, Hugh Grant, in the typical Brit-flick rom-com, Love Actually:

"We may be a small country, but we're a great one too. The country of Shakespeare, Churchill, The Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter, David Beckham's right foot... David Beckham's left foot, come to that..."

And so it goes on.

Now I know St George and the dragon slaying has been slightly overlooked there, and that we can't technically claim Sean Connery as our own (although James Bond is another matter), but the others represent just a few of the reasons why England deserves a bit more of a party in its honour - at least once a year.

So with that said, what'll it be? Pimms, anyone?

.

Under the Skin of the ex-Germaphobic

I look back light-heartedly at the story I am about to tell but in reality, it represents a real low point.

I was in India, travelling, when I dropped my  purse onto the floor of the car - something anybody else would struggle to recall amongst all the memories of an incredible two-month stay in Asia.

The purse lay next to my walking boots that I knew had traipsed across the dusty ground - roamed by potentially rabid dogs and laden with the evidence of the locals' tobacco-spitting habits - and I couldn't pick it up. I remember sitting there, staring down at it and being completely paralysed while hiding my face from my friend beside me as my eyes welled up.

I distinctly remember thinking, for the first time in my life, that I was completely pathetic.

It must be an unnatural thing for others to understand - I imagine it seems completely irrational. Sometimes I can't get my own head around it and like I said, I look back and laugh at how ludicrous it all seems now.

The thing is, I have always been quite the logical thinker.

Nevertheless, I can confess that I once used nearly a whole bottle of hand gel in just one day and with every stinging application my eczema-covered hands were becoming more and more red-raw.

So how can I possibly convince you that, at the time, it all made perfect sense?

Well let's say the old me drops her only square of chocolate on to the floor at a friend's (clean) house.

I'd pick it up instinctively, and then my eyes would be drawn to the spot where it had lead for only a matter of seconds and in a cognitive montage of worst-case scenarios, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with reasons to forgo the five-second rule.

The floor before me would now appear as only a platform of potential contamination. Dozens of pairs of shoes will have trodden over that space and before that moment those shoes will have walked over all kind of terrain. The soles of those shoes will have - at some point - traipsed over chewing gum, cigarrette ends, mud, spit and dogs mess.

From their time outside, those shoes would have walked on pavements no doubt roamed by the occasional wild animal. Rats, mice, foxes, badgers and the untameable paralytic party-goer could have left their mark on the very soles which may have wandered over the very spot I was staring down at.

And as much as I would have wanted to rationalise and eat it like more easy-going guys my age, as much as I would have painfully longed to satisfy my sweet tooth, I would have weighed up all that so-called evidence and cast it aside. Then I would have hand-gelled, just for good measure.

When you can justify a compulsion in that way, it takes a lot to break the habit. You have to re-learn what you thought you knew for sure. And if you had quite understandably thought  that Germaphobic's were just fussy clean freaks, perhaps that has opened your eyes a little because - believe it or not - I can't even class myself as ever being an actual Germaphobic.

I never sought consultation, I was never assessed to be a Germaphobic and that's important to establish because as a medical condition (Mysophobia) it exists in its own right. But as they say, admitting you have a problem is the first step to overcoming it so my experiences were a case of total self-diagnosis.

I forced myself to see the back of a very punishing frame of mind, knowing there were bigger fish to fry and realising that I'd never get anywhere if I was too worried about the pan being dirty.

And if I dropped that same square of chocolate on the carpet today I wouldn't think twice about dusting it off and eating it regardless. I'm a firm believer in the five second rule and my fears of people judging me would be far outweighed by a disproportionate sense of pride and achievement.

It's completely against our instinct to put our flaws out there for the world to see, but I'd come to the conclusion that Germaphobia has for far too long been treated like a dirty word and if nothing else, I just can't stand that level of irony, so it was time to lift the lid on the social taboo.

Confessions of a Journophobic

I would sooner say to people that I am training to become a writer, a producer, a presenter, an editor; all of the above rather than a journalist.

Why? Because people hate journalists; they are widely considered as not to be trusted.

A day or two ago I saw a news story detailing a new job vacancy at Buckingham Palace; a £14,200 position as a dish-washer-upper to Her Majesty the Queen.

And my mind wandered off to indulge in the heavenly idea of a true life Cinderella story where the charming Prince Harry would fall head over heels in a star-crossed romance with me, the cleaner.

But before he could get down on one knee to slip a sizeable diamond onto my fourth finger, my blissful musings were interrupted with one terrible realisation: I’d probably never even get the job in the first place. My CV would likely be cast aside as soon as they saw I’d enrolled to become a journo, lest I turn out to be some devious undercover reporter.

And there I was - crushed, alone and robbed of my future happiness (and the throne, I might add); a hefty price to pay for my career choice.

So, back to plan A; the Multi Media course and my quest to be anything but the reason why journalists are so often said to be disliked.

I’ll humour the scepticism now because I’ve realised that it’s what I think about me in this industry that counts; and I know I won’t be the journalist I’m scared to be stereotyped as.

So to all the journalist-generalisers out there, rest assured: the only thing I’ll be tapping into is my own potential.

Stupid Cupid

If you slag off Valentine’s Day you will be called a cynic. Even if you know it’s got nothing to do with you being single or not, face it: everyone else will presume you are bitter and alone and spiting the rest of us for being too happy. Nobody wants to hear you hark on about it being a stupid corporate holiday so you might as well save your breath.

Knowing all that, you can imagine that I’m not one to make a show and a dance about not being the Valentine’s Day kind of girl. I'm single now but otherwise I'm definately one of those irritating girlfriends that wants the genuine romance, the spontaneous stuff and all that which boys must presume is a bit high-maintenance. So even if I did have another half at the moment (sob! don't remind me!) I think I’d probably suggest we by-pass the whole thing.

But just when I thought another February 14^th was passing me by like those before it, I realised that the day had not always been such a non-event for me.

It started with my first Valetine’s card from a secret admirer in Primary School, which I only found out about years later when the boy in question confessed he’d retrieved it at the last minute – so  he could confess his love for my best friend instead!! Not a good start. And so it began…

2006 – The first Valentine’s with a boyfriend; the first red rose.

2007 – The boy-who-never-turned-into-a-boyfriend posts a card to my home-address; cue ridicule from older brother.

2008 – Receive an anonymous love-note in the post, hand delivered to my door and signed with: See you on the bus. Never worked it out (and felt really awkward on the way to school every morning, all year)

2009 – The second Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend; struck through the heart with Cupid’s Arrow and convinced that the picture frames that I had bought for him would one day showcase our Wedding Day shots. So naive! We probably just lazed around all day eating French Fancies and watching films, and that would have been more than enough – as it should be.

2010 – A triple whammy. A few days before the 14^th I end up on an accidental date with an old friend; the night is very much “Will he, won’t he?” and nothing comes of it until a few months later.

Then we reminisce about the stranger who approached us in the restaurant that night; he couldn’t talk, but convinced us to write our names out on a post-it and later, he returned with a hand-made card addressed to both of us, signed from Bob.

And thirdly for 2010 – a busy year! – After I (wrongly) conclude that the accidental date was just a figment of my imagination, I meet a guy on February 14^th under the conditions that we don’t even mention the V-word. And ironically it’s all romance from start to end – the end being the moment when it turned out that it was, in fact, too good to be true.

Stupid Cupid, picking on me!

So now, 2011; no rose; no guy; no Valentines.  But you know what, who cares?! It’s a stupid corporate holiday anyway!

Nah, just kidding.

If it's your kind of thing, enjoy it. If it's not, ignore it. And if you do decide your Valentine's best mate is more your cup of tea, maybe just write her another anonymous card - keep everybody happy!

The world we (don't) live in

I stumbled across a particularly striking map of the world this week - much more stylish than its Ordinance Survey ancestors; continents formed by the crossover of thin neon lines buzzing between borders, like electricity against a dramatic background of pitch black. But amongst all this I noticed something - huge chunks of China and Africa, missing. Russia and Canada; gone. This is the world according to Facebook.

The etchings across the page in electric blue represent pairs of friends amongst the social network’s 500 million users. The map’s designer, Facebook intern Paul Butler, said, "What really struck me… was knowing that the lines didn't represent coasts or rivers or political borders, but real human relationships."

I’d like to think Facebook is trying to establish itself as the new unofficial ambassador for the global village theory, but I think it’s more likely that its users are becoming increasingly misled about what a “real” relationship actually is.
Now before you assume that I have happily lived under a rock since the beginning of the social networking era, this is one for the record: I have Facebook. To not have Facebook would make me the odd one out in my own generation. But a truth that I’ve acknowledged since first stepping into cyber world is this; a thousand friends do not a popular person make.

I am now in the socially acceptable realm of the 200’s. And whilst I can vouch for Facebook's ability to transcend the world's borders - having used it myself to keep in touch with a number of genuine friends in India - I can't help but wonder about the others. The so-called relationships we claim to have with those we only see by chance on occasional nights out, and probably don't even speak to then.

And as for meeting new people - I never used to get asked for my surname on a night out. Nameless faces have added me who haven’t struck up conversation when we’ve crossed paths in real life. Why? Is it possible we need this online life-line? Do our social lives, now, really stem from the social network? Think about it…

If you haven’t got the courage to talk to that friend-of-a-friend you thought was quite endearing the other night – you can look them up,‘chat.’ They might take a fancy to you when you look your best in your profile picture and sound witty in your status updates - this is the new first impression. But how do we know they’ll still ‘like’ us in the morning..? We don’t.
All we know is that the people that will aren’t the ones we’ll fall out with over something that happened on Facebook, nor are they the people that say to us screen to screen what really needs to be said face to face.

That’s why I love those couples who refuse to make their relationship ‘Facebook official.’ They quietly revolt in the same way that forward-thinking lovers did, back when you were going against nature by not getting married - by not allowing a social formality to define their relationship, and not needing it to show how they really feel about one another. To these kinds of people, Facebook is a tiny, insignificant detail and maybe that’s the way it should be. Because the only way I think Facebook can legitimately claim to have anything to do with our “real human relationships” is by proving to us that the ones worth having will never need to rely on a good internet connection.