No. 1: Unfriending the Addiction of Wretchedness

My latest shameful addiction is social media.  It’s a time sucking black hole and I can’t look away. Luckily it simplifies keeping up with people and news, otherwise I’d be pretty fucked. It’s only a problem when the occasional post launches me into an emotional nosedive. Then I’m really fucked.

One year ago, Facebook introduced me to the small community of Sandy Hook. Rationale froze in desperate paralysis. Gun haters lashed out in slow motion rants and the NRA conducted a another debrief from the safety of a beltway conference room.

.  .  .

The summer before Sandy Hook, a high school classmate connected with me on a site dedicated to our upcoming reunion. Pete and I were never close but he friended me anyhow. We caught up, compared milestones. He shared images of his log home in remote North Idaho and selfies shouldering a Bushmaster rifle. The dialogue dried up until the day after Sandy Hook when he rolled over this wistful quote on Facebook:

"We must reject the idea that every time a law is broken, society is guilty rather than the lawbreaker. It is time to restore the American precept that each individual is accountable for his actions." 

- Ronald Reagan

 

The Gipper’s words floated over an image of a bald eagle staring toward infinity.  Old Glory waved elegantly in the background. Pete launched himself into block captain mode, coaching his online friends to brainstorm ways to better protect kids from gun wielding monsters. 

“Better civilian weapons training!” responded one.
“Armed volunteers at school!” wrote another. 
“Great!  Keep it coming people!” Pete rode the wave. 

The mouse was no match for the comet of caffeine molecules that slammed into my central nervous system. It hijacked my whole body.  Before I could click unfriend, my fingers became weapons of mass destruction. 

Caffeine asked the blue-ribbon panel if injecting more guns into the equation didn’t just push everything closer to the brink. 

On the contrary.  “Guns are just tools in my legal hands” and “the proud founding fathers” did this and that and blah blah fucking, blah. I was coated in NRA Pablum. 

Caffeine asked whether evoking the colonial struggle for independence over a deranged massacre of babies wasn’t equally deranged. Pete’s buzz wore off. He invited me and Caffeine to form our own support group. 

Caffeine meant well but chose the wrong approach with this guy. Pete wandered far beyond the murky backwaters of gun culture where reason is powerless.  He suffered from advanced stages of Affective Weapon Spectrum Disorder (AWSD). 

I wrested control of the mouse and unfriended Pete. Click. In another moment of clarity, I unfriended every gun addict on my social network. Click. Click. Some addicts respond well to tough love. Click. Some just need to be cut off entirely. Click. Click. BAM.