Woh! What the hell is this on my Facebook? A poke? Are you mad? Why you poking me? What was a poke… ever.
A Poke for those of you that are not aware… actually it doesn’t warrant a description, it’s probably been removed from the Dictionary. I assumed, much like The Telegram, Travel Agents and Teletext, that it no longer existed. I think the archives have it in the hands of time somewhere between April 2007 and May 2007… yes I’m quite sure that maybe Ray J was in the charts, maybe Flip Phones were cool… don’t quote me, people also took out digital cameras to night clubs and people ate at Franky and Benny’s.
But then… I log in for a little bit of ego boosting, see how many likes this status or that photo had received since I last logged in (ten minutes ago). There it was… I thought I was having a stroke, or that I had died, or both. Disgust wasn’t the right word, but it was the first that came to mind.
If it had been my Gran or old aunt Bessy, maybe even my fictional uncle Patrick… then I might have just brushed it off; you know… lost in translation between the past and modern day. It wasn’t any of those though. Which is unsurprising, I’m almost certain that none of those even have Facebook. Especially Bessy, she’s too busy cooking delicious Sunday lunches. Seven days a week.
There I see the name… a name which I cannot include for legal reasons, mainly because I’ll be a prime suspect when, I mean if, they go missing this week. So I shame them in a Status… it’s a sexual advance for sure, and I’m not that even that hard to get… I mean, if you look my way, I’ll probably sleep with you… but then that’s probably Uncle Patrick’s fault and I won’t go there.
To top it all, I’m in the gym just enjoying the latest Phil Collins live recording when a group of girls in white robes tap me on the shoulder, well to be more precise… one of them tapped me on the shoulder (come on… a group of people tapping me on the shoulder would be fucking weird!) There they are talking about how Mike is cheating on Sandra and how Scotty forgot to sign the birthday card in the office last week for Linda’s 40th and how she noticed straight away and as if me tapping the volume button way up into the red wasn’t warning enough… they still want to involve me. The gym wasn’t a thing, Vegan’s were called Emo (not by me), travelling probably meant LA or at a push, Cancun and… well you get the picture. I think Ja Rule was still gone by then.
Usually I would get all up in this chat and pretend to care, maybe charm a few of them for a book sale with the ol’ “Hey I’m an author” routine “Please buy my books” but nope… not to day. I’ve gone and caught PTSD. Poke Traumatic Stress Disorder. The tap on the shoulder became a poke, the poke became, well… PTSD.
So I’ve rushed home from the gym, not even having worked out… now, why I was sitting in the foyer of the gym listening to my headphones before I’d even done any kind of exercise is just none of your business… I’ve already shared too much. But now I’m sure to be having nightmares, night terrors in fact.
Who do I call? The Police wanted nothing to do with me! The Fire Crew said that they couldn’t tackle heat like this. The hospital said that they don’t have the technology, elbow grease or man power to deal with Poke Trauma yet.
Has Drake not made a song about this yet? Just please… please don’t poke people.
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