Exchanging Wedding Vows With My Facebook Account

(Published on HelloGiggles.com)

From Our Readers

I, take you, Facebook, to be my nosy, bothersome partner. To have and to hold you open on my iPhone during poetry class or family dinners or a friend’s confessional, from this day forward, until battery death do us part.

To hold you affectionately in the morning as I emerge from the covers, seeking the companionship of a baby sloth video or a picture of a high school acquaintance clad in a “slutty pirate” costume. I promise to search for universal truths in your endless scroll, passing the play by plays of the Red Sox game and the “I love poop” statuses until resigning to the idea that those may in fact, be our new truths.

For better or for worse, I will procure you a new banner to wear upon your virtual forehead, like a bandana of blatant individuality. Expect a pile of puppies or a “Stay Calm and Carry On” quote or a mushy couple-kissing-in-front-of-Eiffel-tower shot.

In sickness, I promise to reference you for unexpected aid, hoping someone will have a naturopathic remedy for strep throat or a recommendation for a softer brand of tissue. In health, I will take a picture of my running shoes, just so you know I’m serious about that half-marathon I signed up for.

For richer, I will exclaim about my successes to you and your followers, posting close-ups of my 14 karat engagement ring or asking for good luck on my job interview. For poorer, I will post a snapshot of my dinner of Top Raman and hash tag it as “#dinnerdoneright” and “#pleasegodsomeonehireme.”

My dear, I promise to love and cherish your lightning fast information dissemination, waste time on your feed, disapprove of your consistent misspellings, cheat on you with Pinterest, periodically deactivate, and frantically reactivate you, for as long as we both shall live.

~

I, Facebook, take you to be my lawfully wedded user. To have and to hold your attention for the hours you could’ve read Walt Whitman or gone to the gym or cooked lasagna from scratch or called your aging grandparents.

For better or worse, I will remind you of your friend’s birthdays, and allow you to send them good wishes without leaving the couch. I will create events for you to join so you remember (on occasion) to log off, remove your stale, coffee-stained pajamas and go to Suzy’s Bachelorette Party or Alex’s Walking Dead Marathon. I promise to poke your aunt and act the P.I. to confirm that the cute guy from your ECON 101 class is in fact, in a “complicated” relationship.

I promise to make you worry you’re not funny enough or pretty enough or smart enough. To make you compare your life to Claire’s or Amelia’s or Jack’s. To be that little blue icon that is ever-present and there for you, especially when you read something that just really needs to be shared, even if it already has 435 likes. I promise to twist your words into abstractions as you forget the importance of a facial expression and vocal inflection in interaction.

In sickness, I promise to blind you early and give you carpal tunnel. In health, I promise to make you feel like you’ve finally won the competition you unknowingly entered with everyone else. For richer, I promise to help you advertise yourself and network with other people in your field. I promise to be an unhealthy habit you would quit if you didn’t see it as helpful to a blossoming writer.

My dear, I promise to love and cherish your ebony cursor upon my skin, your every grammatically incoherent profundity, the sincerity inside your “lols” and the affection behind the use of kissy-faced emoticons, for as long as we both shall live.