Facebook plays such a weird role in my life.

Remember when that boy I maybe loved was in town a couple months ago? I wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for Facebook. I would have preferred to not know. Maybe then it wouldn’t have bothered me so much when he didn’t let me know he was coming to town. Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much when he made an effort to see everyone we used to be friends with except me. Someone always gets squeezed out, right? You never think it’s going to be you.

I wanted to block him. I wanted to block him so bad. But I didn’t.

“Don’t, Katey,” I thought. “You’ll regret it.”

What if he finds out? It’s wrong and petty and childish. You’re stronger than that. Don’t be immature. Just get over it already.

I did the next best thing and blocked his girlfriend instead. She’s the one posting their relationship bliss all over the place anyway. Did you know that Facebook apologizes when you block someone?

“We’re sorry that you’ve had this experience.”

Me too, Facebook. Me fucking too.

Nobody has to know. Well, except you guys know now. Oops. But guess what? It worked. I didn’t care about it anymore almost immediately. I didn’t care about her. I didn’t care about him. I don’t care that he came to town and didn’t tell me. I don’t wonder if I’ll ever see him again. I don’t care that he broke my heart. I don’t care that it might still be broken. It all just goes away. Off of Facebook and back into the Universe where I don’t have to worry about what’s going to happen anymore.

So, it turns out the only really childish thing is not doing what you need to do to move on with your life.

Facebook also told me about my friend Travis’s birthday last week. I wouldn’t have known this either but Facebook told me so. I posted a picture of us on his birthday a few years ago and Facebook reminded me that post was on this day those years ago.

Thanks, Facebook.

Thanks for reminding me of his birthday. Thank you for also reminding me that I didn’t remember his birthday. For a second I felt sad, like I should have felt guilty or something. I didn’t feel guilty. I think of him all the time. One of my favorite pictures of my life is that picture of me and him. It hangs in my kitchen and I see it everyday. Sometimes I think of him at the most random times, too. It’s not a coincidence. Does he care if I remember his birthday? I don’t know what it’s like to be dead but I have a hunch birthdays aren’t really a thing after you die.

The hardest I can remember crying was when I found out Travis died. Have you ever cried so hard you feel like you’re going to throw up? So hard you can’t breathe? So hard that you forget why you’re even crying, and then you’re just crying because you’re so scared you forgot why it started, and you feel like it will never stop? So hard you feel like you’re going to die? So hard that it feels like the energy it takes to get every last tear out of your body will actually, physically kill you? I wouldn’t wish a cry like that on anyone. But it’s definitely something everyone should experience at some point.

I remember the last conversation I had with Travis like it was yesterday. The last time I heard his voice. He sounded so sad. It wasn’t strange to go a while without talking to him. The time when “a while” did feel strange is when I asked someone about him at a party. They told me he was dead. He had already been dead for months. Learning that someone you love has been dead for months is one of the worst feelings I can think of. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone either. You live your life assuming everyone you love is going about their days as usual. That isn’t always true.

When I got home from the party I puked my guts out and cried the cry I described above on the bathroom floor until I fell asleep. My neighbor must have heard it all through the wall because he looked at me really funny the next day and sounded really curious and sincere when he asked me how I was doing.

There have been other experiences with death, too. Nello. My grandfather. A family friend that hung himself when I was in middle school. Another family friend that died after a supposed bad acid trip. It was the middle of winter and they found him almost naked in a puddle. Dead. I’ve never tried acid. I probably never will.

A few times I thought I was going to die, too. Two times were in Thailand. One was in the upstairs corner room of that pink house. Maybe it was Malaria. Maybe it was the flu but that’s just what the flu feels like when you are 8,000 miles from home.

The second time was in an upstairs corner room of a dirty hostel room in Koh Tao. That time it could have been severe dehydration. Food poisoning, maybe? Or my body physically rejecting my efforts to stay in Thailand as long as possible. I’ll never know. I’m glad I didn’t die that time because dying alone surrounded by empty Pocari Sweat bottles and a half broken toilet would have been a shitty way to go out. Pun intended. Thailand is beautiful and weird and magical. I don’t know if it is even a real place. Maybe I did die there? A part of me did at least. Maybe feeling like you’re going to die is all part of the magic.

Because feeling like you’re going to die is coincidentally the part that makes you feel alive.

I don’t need Facebook to remind me of that.