Status

“Karen Wells has never been happier”

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I do not.

Seeing this status update from the woman I love, who until so very recently professed to love me, I feel physically sick. The responses from her friends drive nails into my heart.

“Babe, I havent seen you so happy for years! You are positively glowing hun!” This from Zoe Palmer, her best friend. That would be the years she was with me then, Zoe, would it?

“OMG! Jason is well fit. You are so lucky sis!” Chloe, Karen’s little sister, who always thought I was more well fat than fit and delighted in calling me ‘Chubster’.

“Thank god ur not wiv dat shortarsed twat nemore!!!!! lol” Thanks Gemma. Nice spelling by the way.

Short-arsed? “Five seven isn’t short,” Karen told me so many times. “You’re more than enough man for me.”

Well, apparently not anymore, according to the profile picture of her and “well fit” Jason, him gazing down at her, his hand just casually resting on her lovely bottom as if he owns it. His stupid pecs showing through his stupid tight t-shirt. I run my hand over where I imagine my pecs should be but depressingly find no evidence of any muscle whatsoever.

I stare at the photo for so long the image swims before my eyes and I have to blink several times to bring it back into focus. Karen’s expression is strange in this picture. Something different about her face.

I browse through my photo collection, ‘Scarborough ‘09’. Me and Karen on the Lifeboat Experience. Me and Karen on the pier. Me and Karen in front of the castle. Me and Karen at the naval warfare re-enactment when the model boats got stuck in the pondweed.

I arrange these photos on the screen alongside the one of her and the lanky bastard to compare. The difference is obvious. She’s smiling in the one with him. Really smiling. With her eyes as well as her mouth. I’m not sure how to describe what she’s doing in Scarborough. Is grimacing the word?

It’s been a week since Karen declared her happiness to the world wide web but she’s not been on here since. I know because I’ve barely been off here. I can’t leave it alone. She’s always on here and now she’s nowhere to be seen. Her Farmville farm must be going to wrack and ruin.

So where is she? My treacherous imagination has some ideas and decides to play them in my mind in high definition and surround sound. The horribly familiar setting of her bedroom. Herbert the fluffy teddy I won for her on the grabber machine at Bognor stares glassy-eyed from the top of her wardrobe as Karen and Jason grind their sweaty bodies together. His hands all over her, his mouth on hers, his lips moving down the length of her, her tongue trails slowly down over his tanned washboard stomach.

Desperately I tell myself that they’re not in bed together, that they’ve never been to bed together. They’re just out at the cinema chastely holding hands. I concentrate and fix the image in my mind; they’re both sat bolt upright staring at the screen, mechanically eating popcorn from separate tubs. Then Karen’s hand wanders from the popcorn to Jason’s trousers where she undoes his flies and my innocent date scenario turns quickly into more squelchy depravity.

I spend days lying in bed watching her profile, waiting for her to return but in vain. I check out her best friends’ profiles for some sign of what she’s doing. Then I widen the search to all of her friends – 264 of them – she’s a popular girl. When that yields nothing I grit my teeth and turn to Jason and his profile. No joy there, so I move on to scanning through his friends. Three o’ clock Sunday morning finds me trawling through photos of some guy’s stag do to see if Karen put in an appearance.

Even in my sleep-deprived state, part of me is well aware of how scary my behaviour is. A voice inside me, quiet but insistent, tells me to stop all this before I tip over into a madness from which there may be no return. Torn, I push the laptop away from me and bury myself under the duvet and drift into an uneasy doze.

In my dream I find a new photo album on Karen’s profile: ‘Best sex EVER!’ Hundreds upon hundreds of explicit photos of her and him in every position my unconscious can conjure up. Their friends comment on the photos: “Yeah, give her one from me Jayce! Lol!”; Karen I neva new u was so bendy!!!!!!!!!!!!!”; “Jason, wot a BIG boy u r ;-)”. I wake aroused and sobbing.

It’s early, still dark outside. I grab the laptop and power it up. On Facebook, I follow the familiar path to Karen’s profile. Scrolling down I find the link, ‘Remove from Friends’. I click on it determinedly and a window pops up. ‘Are you sure you want to remove Karen Wells as your friend?’

‘Remove from friends’. ‘Cancel’.

I hover the cursor over ‘Remove from friends’ and will my finger to click. No response from the digit. I try again with the same result. And again. Nothing.

I close my eyes and wave the mouse around, clicking wildly. When I look back, the window obstinately floats on the screen. Sighing, I slide the cursor over to ‘Cancel’ and click. The window disappears and I sit back, disgusted with myself.

“Come on, man!” I tell myself. I grab my keys and leave the flat for the first time in a week. After the festering atmosphere of my room the cold morning air makes me catch my breath. As I walk the deserted streets I can feel my thinking become clearer. The past few days seem unreal and I have trouble believing it was me doing those desperate things. Something has changed inside me and I head home feeling better than I have for months.

Back in the flat, I fling open the curtains and windows, allowing the dawn to flood in. Opening the laptop, I’m back on Facebook and for the last time I look for Karen’s profile.

She’s not there. I check again. No, she’s gone. I search for Karen Wells. There she is, among 87 namesakes. I click on her and the message comes up: ‘Karen only shares some of her profile information with everyone.’

She’s defriended me. I can’t believe it. I was all set to remove her and she’s beaten me to it. What now?

Having psyched myself up only to be denied, I am filled with the need to do something. I click on ‘My Account’ and locate the ‘Deactivate Account’ option. I click and several pictures of my friends appear with captions claiming they will all miss me. Below this I am asked to give my reasons for quitting Facebook.

They include:
I spend too much time using Facebook.
I don't feel safe on Facebook.
I don't find Facebook useful.
Other

I find it hard to pick so I opt for ‘Other’ and type in the box underneath, “I need to get on with my life.’ I then click firmly on ‘Deactivate my account’, shut down the computer and go in search of breakfast.