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When I exchange phones, I have to leave my new phone and my old phone in the Sprint store for about four hours, because this is how long it takes to upload my 1734 phone numbers to my new phone.  The deal is, I had no idea it was going to upload all of my Facebook friends’ numbers, but it has come in handy now as I sometimes call a Facebook friend and talk. Out of the blue, so to speak, since we do not really know each other at all, just on Facebook.

I barely know these people, barely being a giant stretch of the imagination.  Wait a second. I have bumped over 330 of them off, because they put something offensive on there like a dead dog, or a mutilated human being. Anything that hurts me on sight, makes me eliminate that Facebook friend.
I do not merely delete them, I indignantly delete them.  Sometimes sending them a little message explaining why; other times not so much.

If you post my weight, my blood type, my favorite desserts, and a story about me doing something horrible that I may or may not have done, I will delete you also.  When you ask me to send around a photo of a pedophile, I will not do it. For I do not know that person, and until they make the pedophile list about real pedophiles instead of 18-year-old boys who had sex with their almost 18-year-old girlfriends off the sex offenders list, I will not help in any way, shape or form.

Some of my Facebook friends are former co-workers; and man, did I have great times with some of them!  I remember the time my husband was demanding I cough up my W-2 forms for income tax or some other silly reason.  My good friend, Karla, saw me tearing the counseling office apart. She came in to help, because that’s the sort of REAL friend she is, not just a Facebook friend.  “What are you doing?”

“I am looking for those stupid W-2’s we got about a month ago,” I responded as I pushed my sixteenth pile of papers onto the floor and dumped my desk drawer’s contents on top of it. A hurricane would not accomplished as much as I accomplished in the past six minutes.  A couple of minutes later, Karla came into my office, waving the stupid W-2’s at me. 
I was astonished!
 “Where did you find them?”  
Karla smiled.  “In between the six hundred Drug and Alcohol Abuse posters you laid out here on the desk in the anteroom.”  
“Why did you look there?” 
Karla smiled. “Because I know you.”
Indeed she did, and she saved my bacon too.
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