You can run. You can hide. Just not on the internet.

Yep, it’s happened again, I got another beef with FB. You know, the site that connects you with 300 people you maybe borrowed a pencil from in your lifetime and your 3 best friends from grade school who are now crackheads.

So 5 years, 2 months and 8 days of bliss and now my fucking family found me. I mean, I wasn’t in an only child protection program where I changed my name, threw acid on my face and cut my fingerprints off. I just stopped answering my cell phone. And email. And door.

It’s one thing when it’s Momma Grand Dame Crazy Pants. I can handle her, for short periods of time in various stages of drunkenness. But it’s completely another when it’s your cousin, oh wait, correction…your cousin’s HUSBAND, who finds you on FB aka: apparently the hot spot where any Tom, Dick and cousin Steve can track your ass down.

Now don’t get me wrong, cuzzy Steve practically raised me because I had a couple of nutbuckets for parents. Also, to his credit, I wasn’t what one would call a “normal” child. I was what the experts would call highly gifted in the area of making the “crazy.” Do I have examples, you ask? Well let’s take a quick stroll down the ‘ol Crazy Pants Memory Lane, circa 8 to 10 years of age.

I had this “pyro phase” where I would try to figure out different ways to create a fire maze, like Rube Goldberg style, from the stove to a candle or some other ignitable object (like paper plates). A GAS stove, girl.

I blackmailed my babysitter saying that I would tell on her for taking me to see the movie “Pink Floyd’s The Wall” with her acid-tripping friends (which by the way, really fucked my shit up for weeks) if she didn’t take me to see Yentil (you know, the movie about “a Jewish girl who disguises herself as a boy to enter religious training”.) She agreed. However, I ended up hating the movie (trust me, it’s no Pink Floyd), so I told on her ass anyway.

So Steve stepped in to put an end to this. And while somewhat successful, he definitely had interesting tactics. At the time, he had his at home business raising tropical fish and, um, tarantulas. Yup, as in the hairy spiders of death. Now what he didn’t tell me was that the tarantulas didn’t have venom. So when I would act a fool, say something like showing his neighbors his laser disc porn collection, he would make me sit with a tarantula on my hands and tell me that I had better not move.

Question, is it becoming semi-apparent why I might not want to have contact with family now?

So riddle me this, what do I do? Accept the “friendvite” and limit his ability to see my status updates such as “Crazypants thought her neighbor’s mailbox was the toilet again. Whoops-a-dasical!” Or do I flat out reject and hope to God the next family reunion is a webcast? Decisions, decisions.