When you were sitting in your dorm room at Harvard, writing out math calculations on a really cool glass whiteboard that I’m sure you didn’t actually own, (thank you David Fincher for allowing me to once again lose myself in the world of hyperreality) I don’t think you foresaw what exactly your little creation would do to the rest of us.
What I currently need to be doing is drowning myself in population means and Max Weber; instead, I’m rating the girls in my ex’s most recent tagged photos and gagging at the impressive number of chins I have in the pictures my friend added from this weekend. I should mention that I just do not have the time or energy to go through pictures 1-460. Whoops. That just happened.
What’s worse is that I am so uninterested by the prospect of finals that I’m procrastinating by writing an inbox to my mother. In fact, it’s a haiku about how I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing. The least you could have done was use that extremely large and competent brain of yours to predict that this would be a problem for easily distracted college students like myself and create some sort of application that would remove your dumb site from our computer’s knowledge. I don’t always have the self-control to turn on Self Control.
I’ve sunk so low that my new hobby is poking people with whom I share a very distant and barely friendly relationship. This is fairly amusing and I can objectively (though, really, it is completely subjective) laugh at the awkwardness I know they feel.
In conclusion, I am mad at you.
Please, Mark, change your ways. (Or at least take my Probability & Statistics final for me? Thanks.)