Facebook posts I haven't had the guts to put up yet

Note--loyal reader(s), none of this applies to you. Anyone who has this address is NOT on my crap list right now, and is NOT referred to below. That said, if there's some overlap, forget it. And forgive. Please. I'm a malcontent.

For those unaware, Facebook has an application whereby you can post whatever you're up to at any given moment, for your "Friends" to see. Most posts range from the pedestrian and soporific ("Linda is doing laundry"; "Darren is taking the wife out to Starbucks") to the asinine and exhibitionistic ("Robbie is getting on a jet plane to head out to Ontario for lunch! Yum yum! Canadian sushi!"; "Ellen is http://incomprehensiblewebsitehere.com and loving it!").

I keep up because most of these people are either friends I rarely get to see and would not keep in contact with as much were it not for Facebook, or people I just like to spar with in writing. Aron, for example, wields his posts like a sharp scalpel.

However, for the record: My posts are poetry. Sheer poetry. I can play Facebook like Rod fucking McKuen:

Digger Blue is an integer greater than 2, so that the equation aMe + bMe=cMe has no solutions in non-zero integers a, b, and c. (Feb 13. People loved it.)

Digger Blue just might have to choke a bitch. (Feb 12. People loved it.)

Digger Blue likes big books and he cannot lie/ You other brothers can't deny... (Feb 6. People sorta liked it.)

Digger Blue is writing a self help book titled "Your husband drinks because you're stupid." (Feb 5. Karen hated it. Score.)

Ironically enough, sometimes I'm maddened that my genius is wasted on people I know.

But every now and then, I censor myself. Such as: Digger Blue ...

--doesn't want to hear about how cute your choir boy kids are. Shut up. Put them in a real school.

--saw your gut hanging out in that vacation picture you put up. Nice spare tire, Jabba.

--sympathizes with how tough it is to go back to work doing nothing after a long weekend lying on the beach and flirting with desperate divorcees. How do you manage?

--sympathizes with the conference call you worked through. Must have been tough, texting me five fucking times while it was going on. When I'm working, I have to concentrate solely on work, or else I can't get the job done. How do you manage?

--didn't have an hour lunch today. Or a half hour lunch. But you did. You suck.

--thinks a body count is a body count. So enough with the Quassam Count. It's what, Israel: 13,000; Palestine, 20, right?

--didn't really like you that much in high school. So why is he paying attention to you now?

--'s notes are better than yours. Know why? Because he's not talking just to hear himself talk. Hello? Are you listening? Uh...scratch that.

--would rather be making love to what's-her-name than hear your gripes about the PTA.

--would rather be making love to himself than hear your gripes about anything at all.

--would rather be making love to OTAS. Period. That's it.

--would rather be making love to a weightlifter named Rocky in his eight-by-nine cell than spend another minute with these idiots.

--is amazed you can carry a grudge that long. And not a little proud, for that matter.

--thinks that just because someone hasn't fully matured, comes from a difficult home life, and hasn't yet come to grips with himself and his place in the world doesn't mean that person isn't still, and will forever remain, a douche.

--knows he could have done a better job today. But he still did more than you.

--just realized, if he were someone else, he would so do me.

I think my decision to remain circumspect speaks for itself. But wasn't it Neil Simon who said, "Once you censor yourself, you're a candidate for mediocrity?" Hmm. I seem to be on thin ice here.