In Nashville, there is a burrito place I like to visit. This is because they have the best burritos a person could ever imagine. It is like someone took Chipotle, then decided to make it roughly 80% better. Then they added Horchata at the beverage station, effectively creating the greatest restaurant ever.
The restaurant must be great for me to love it despite the influx of hipsters, hipsterdom, and all of the terribleness that comes with hipsters. The clientele that usually stands before me and my barbacoa is a sea of irony wrapped in a faux caustic wit. I have seen teenage girls, their blue streaked blonde hair hanging over a strategically worn Wu-Tang clan shirt. There have been young men in thrift store suits, their pants falling two inches short of reaching their shoes. Of course no one would notice this, though, as they were sure to be distracted by the thick coating of pomade applied so delicately to the nicely slicked down hair. Then there are the skinny jeans. Oh so many skinny jeans.
As I sat down to my burrito, chips, and half pineapple- half spicy salsa, I saw the king of hipsters. He wondered from the counter, a feather in his fedora. He wore a scarf despite the fact that it was warm enough for a thin t-shirt outside. His arms had become a showcase for random tattoos. Amongst the skulls and a bizarre picture of Frankenstein was a portrait of famed surreal artist Salvador Dali. His face had been permanently etched on the man’s left bicep, his weird pointy moustache wrapping around the man’s thin arm.
I know that Salvador Dali is considered a great artist, but this seemed like an odd choice to me. I mean, he certainly is not considered the greatest artist of all time. That would be like me wanting a tattoo of a great baseball player, but instead of choosing Willie Mays or Babe Ruth or Nolan Ryan, I decided to tattoo Bill Mazeroski on my arm.
Maybe he really loves Salvador Dali. “The Persistence of Memory” and “The Face of War” are interesting. “Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening” wins the award for title of a painting that sounds most like a very bad Mad Lib. I guess I could understand someone having that great of an appreciation for Dali. If that were the case, though, I doubt he would be held in the same esteem as Frankenstein on the man’s right bicep.
Call me cynical, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the tattoo has less to do with a love of Dali’s art and more to do with the fact that Salvador Dali was a polarizing art figure and choosing to tattoo a polarizing art figure is a very different thing that many people would not do. Plus he had a very strange mustache and hipsters do love their mustaches.
When people like this wander into my favorite burrito place, I get the feeling I do not belong there. I have no tattoo and no feathered fedora. None of my clothing is “ironic.” I started briefly thinking that maybe I should find a new burrito place and leave this for the tattooed Salvador Dali fans of the world. Then I had a realization.
Tattoos may be forever, but the memory of that burrito is also forever AND it was delicious. No tattooed hipsters will run me off from my barbacoa, especially if it comes paired with Horchata. That is my solemn promise.
DEAR NATHAN: My husband drinks milk straight from the carton. He says it’s OK because he’s the only one in the house who drinks milk. (True.) I have told him I find it disgusting and that company often drinks milk, having no idea that he drinks straight from the carton.
Isn’t this unsanitary — not to mention rude and selfish behavior? I’d love to know how to get him to stop. — GROSSED OUT IN NEW JERSEY
DEAR GROSSED OUT: This is an excellent question. As I am not a scientist, I thought I would turn to the experts. By that, I mean “Yahoo! Answers.”
According to Class of 2010, this is very unsanitary. The reason is “It’s gross!” I guess that settles whether it is unsanitary.
It can be hard to put the kibosh on this type of habit. According to Class of 2010, you should “tell him to stop being lazy and get a cup like a regular person.” Of course, then you will have to debate whether he is indeed a regular person or if he is an irregular person. And what is the definition of an irregular person anyway? Aside from commercials for Metamucil, I have never heard anyone refer to someone as an irregular person.
My advice is much simpler. If you are worried about the guests getting your husband’s backwash, just stop inviting people to stay with you. The exception would be for lactose intolerant people. It would be okay for them.
Most importantly, never take the advice of Class of 2010. I am not sure that they really know what they’re talking about.
Good luck finding a good source of calcium without your husband’s spit in it,
DEAR NATHAN: I’m 21 and a college student. My mother recently came to visit me and took my boyfriend and me out to dinner. After we were through eating, we sat across the table from my mother and engaged in post-dinner chatter. I draped my arm around his neck and began playing with his ear. It was absent-minded, and I thought nothing of it, but my mother stared from across the table shocked.
She later told me that ear fondling is not appropriate in public. I was taken aback. Isn’t it OK to play with my boyfriend’s ear in public? Does it make people around us uncomfortable? — EAR SNUGGLES IN VERMONT
DEAR EAR SNUGGLES: I have no idea whether this would be appropriate or not. If I were to see a couple ear fondling, I would not be immediately grossed out unless the finger that was just all over the person’s ear immediately went into a shared dish of food.
I do want to congratulate you, though, on coining the term “ear fondling.” What exactly would constitute ear fondling? Is it just playing with the earlobe or do you incorporate cartilage into the action? Aren’t you concerned about earwax?
As far as your mother is concerned, just tell her that your boyfriend suffers from a debilitating case of eariclosis tendinitis, an excruciating diseases that affects dozens of people every year. The only way to provide relief is for a nice ear massage. You immediately go from an ear fondling deviant to a saint.
Commiserations to you as you cope with your boyfriend’s terrible illness,
DEAR NATHAN: We live in a small town. My husband is friendly and outgoing and seems to know everyone. We can’t go anywhere without running into someone he knows. Meals out that should be quiet affairs turn into social situations I do not want to be part of.
I have wracked my brain as to a polite response to people when they say, “Join us!” I don’t WANT to join them. How do we politely decline their friendly offer? — “NOT TONIGHT” IN NORTH CAROLINA
DEAR NOT TONIGHT: I would recommend saying the following to them:
“Oh, Jeez, that sounds real nice. The thing is, my husband has a terrible debilitating case of eariclosis tendinitis and I would hate to have people think I am fondling his ear out in public. We better get going to that table WAY over there away from everyone else.”
Medical lies are always the best excuse.
Enjoy dining alone,
Springtime is a rough time to have to be at work.
Just above my computer screen, I can see out a dozen or so large windows looking out on the world. There, beyond the parking lot, is a world full of trees and grass. I watch the sun shine down on them and I desperately want to be out experiencing nature instead of inside staring at the devilish creations that Microsoft has dreamed up.
Today, while looking out, I had a sudden urge to climb a tree. I sat there staring at one particular tree, thinking that I could climb it. It wouldn’t even be hard. I would get there, grab that one low branch, swing my leg up, pull myself up, and then I would officially be the king of that tree.
Then I started to think about it. Why would I even want to climb that tree? Once I was up there, I would have nothing to do but to sit on that one branch. I guess I could go higher up in the tree, but once I got there I would find myself sitting again. Once you get up into a tree, it is essentially a series of benches for your sitting enjoyment minus any and all comfort a bench can provide.
I remembered liking to climb trees as a kid, though. Of course, was that because I really liked to climb trees or was it because the media was force feeding me lies about the joys of tree climbing? I know there were cartoons I watched where people would climb trees and they seemed like they were having a blast. Had the media turned me into a tree-climbing drone happily following their tree-climbing directions?
Why, though, would the media want to encourage me to climb a tree? If I am sitting in a tree somewhere, I would be far less likely to watch the programming that they want me to. It seems like it would be a good move for the media to convince people that trees and outside in general are all very bad. Either that or they could work with botanists to create trees that contain HDTV’s on every branch, though that seems fairly impractical.
I think a good way to get kids to eat fruit would be to get kids to climb fruit trees. You just grab your kid and point them to the nearest apple orchard. Once they got into a tree, they would be so bored that they would have nothing to do but eat the apples that surround them. You would want to be careful, though. If you leave them up in that tree too long, you might be contributing to childhood obesity.
It would be nice, I suppose, to sit in the tree and experience the outdoors for a while. Maybe I could scale it with a book in hand and enjoy some delightful in-tree reading. It would be just like being in a library but with much rougher seats and a greatly increased chance of running into sap.
Not that it matters. I am far too busy with this Excel spreadsheet to get to climb a tree anyway.
Thanks a lot, Microsoft.
Dear Columbia Broadcasting System,
Hello. You may not be familiar with me, but my name is Nathan. I have been a fan of yours for many years, having watched countless programs that you have offered up for consumption. In fact, over the 27 years I have been alive, I estimate that roughly 13 of those years has been spent watching your television network, the other 14 being made up of trying to figure out what to eat, eating, and then falling asleep because I have eaten far too much. As far as I am concerned, all of the other networks are pure garbage that should be burned in a barrel so as to not inflict the world with anymore of their rubbish.
Today one of my comedy heroes, David Michael Letterman, announced he is retiring from his long running late night show creatively titled “The Late Show.” It is a very gloomy day, to say the least. Mr. Letterman has helmed his show for nearly my entire lifetime and done so with great vigor and honor.
With that said, I see the conundrum you are currently in. You will have to find a host to replace the incomparable David Letterman by the time he leaves in 2015. That is why I have done you an immense favor.
Mr. or Ms. Columbia Broadcasting System, I would like to throw my hat in the ring for the competition to helm “The Late Show.”
You may be asking yourselves, “Exactly why would we give a show with such a storied history to some fellow we have never met or heard of?” I think the better question would be “Why not?”
We will start with the bottom line. According to a hastily performed Google search, you were paying Mr. Letterman $20 million a year. That is crazy money! There is no way you would have to pay me $20 million. I could not even imagine how much money that would be, so rest assured I would be cheaper. I mean, if you were to take the ridiculous amount you were paying him per year and convert that into pennies, I am sure you could fill an Olympic sized swimming pool.
Okay, after another hastily performed Google search, it would easily fill an Olympic sized swimming pool. On a side note, did you know it would only take $45,000 in pennies to fill that pool? I would never have guessed. See? I have already taught you something. That is just one of the many talents I would bring to “The Late Show.”
Another reason to give me a spot in the historic Ed Sullivan Theater would be my ability to tell a good joke. I am a joke master. Whenever I am at a party, hordes of people surround me begging for a joke. Then they proceed to laugh until they go hoarse. It kind of kills the mood of the party when no one is able to speak, but that is just the price I pay for being this funny. To prove this, I have crafted a monologue joke involving a topical event:
“According to NASA, studies show that underneath a thick layer of ice on the planet Saturn is an ocean the size of Lake Superior. An ocean the size of Lake Superior? Looks like Earth wins again at intergalactic ocean having!”
Okay, I will admit that punchline needs a little work. That’s why the show has writers, though.
Lastly, I think my built-in audience would really help ratings. Not to brag, but I have over 500 friends on Facebook. That is halfway to 1,000! You could not even pay for that kind of built-in fan base. That is 500 viewers that would absolutely tune in every single night. Maybe. I mean, there are a lot of them that I do not really talk to, but I think you could count on at least 200.
In conclusion, I think my low price, joke writing ability, and built-in fan base make me the perfect heir to Mr. Letterman. I eagerly await contact from you.
Nathan Cornelius Witherspoon Badley IIX
P.S. If anyone from another network is also reading this, that first paragraph is a bunch of crap. I also watch your channel and will happily take any job you have to offer.
Strewn about the highways of middle-Tennessee, you will find hundreds of video boards spelling out important messages to the drivers passing by. Sometimes they will be warning you of construction up ahead. Other times they will be grimly tallying up the number of deaths that have happened on the state’s highways this year and, for good measure, comparing it to the previous year. A few times, they have broadcast the statistic that 52% of traffic fatalities in the state of Tennessee were to people not wearing seatbelts, a statistic that I am sure is supposed to convince everyone to buckle up for safety but only causes me to think “Is that really it?”
Many times, though, the bright letters will spell out a very important message: “Don’t Drive Drowsy.” Often times I see those signs and chuckle. See, if I were NEVER drive drowsy, I would likely have to quit my job and spend the rest of my life at home. When I leave for work in the morning, I am rarely ever fully awake. Normally, my coffee has not kicked in and odds are I was up far too late doing something far too unimportant.
I knew that driving drowsy could be bad, but I never fully understood how bad it could be until today.
I was behind the wheel of my mighty steed as I merged onto the highway today. As I was sitting there, I had a moment of panic. As I had left the apartment today, it seemed like I had remembered everything. I had gotten my bag, grabbed my coffee, remembered to put on pants… still something did not seem right.
As I reached down to grab my coffee, my hand grazed my pocket. That’s when it hit me. At this very moment, I had no idea where my keys were.
I began furiously patting my pocket as if I expected them to magically appear with the correct amount of leg slaps. When that did not work, I wiggled in my seat, sliding my hand into the pocket. I guess my thought process was that perhaps I did not feel my keys because they had slipped into some secret area at the bottom of my pocket, an area that renders all objects imperceptible to the human touch unless, of course, you are lucky enough to jam your hand far enough in there to find it.
Great, I thought. Now I am locked out of my apartment and I have no keys. I will get home and just have to sit there on the hallway steps, waiting for my wife to come and rescue me.
That is when it hit me: there is no way I could have locked my keys inside my apartment. I need them to lock the apartment door! Stupid Nathan! I must have dropped them on the way to the car. Now I will have to go to the nearest hardware store and have copies of EVERY key made. That would be very expensive.
About three miles of shuffling, patting, and nervously wondering if a stranger had found my keys and, if so, wondering if that stranger had let himself into my apartment to steal all of my possessions, it finally clicked. I was driving a car. I need a key to start the car. Following that logic, I slowly glanced down. Sure enough, the keys were right there in the ignition, the logical place for a person’s keys to be while piloting their motor vehicle down a highway.
In a drowsy stupor, I had completely forgotten what I use my keys for. If I could forget that while drowsy, what kinds of terrible driving decisions could I make? It could be very dangerous indeed.
I would like to promise that I will never drive drowsy again. The truth is, I probably will. I will also probably forget where my keys are again.
My biggest goal is to never have the two happen at the same time again. I will either feel drowsy while driving OR forget where my keys are. I am nothing if not ambitious.
Rumors about the upcoming iPhone 6 have been flying about the internet for months. It is single-handedly the most anticipated upcoming phone that begins with a vowel that is not a, e, o, u, or sometimes y. A quick Google search for “iPhone 6 rumors” will bring up 103,000,000 results, most of which do not link to pornography or terrible computer viruses.
Finally, though, it appears we have some confirmation about features that will be included on the upcoming iPhone 6. In an unexpected press release today, Apple CEO Tim Cook outlined some of the upcoming specs of this hotly anticipated phone.
For months, sites have gossiped about the iPhone possibly coming in more than just the standard 4” screen previously featured on the iPhone. In fact, the iPhone 6 will come with a wide range of sizes, starting at a 4.7” screen and featuring several larger sizes such as the 5.5” iPhone affectionately called “the large,” the 6.8” “gigantor”, the 7.6” “grande”, and the 9.7” iPad/iPhone combo called the “iEverything.”
“It seems like featuring one size of screen has seriously limited the iPhone in the past,” said Cook. “We are looking at even more advances in the future. My hope is that, by the 10th generation, the iPhone will be available in a 32” model.”
In addition to new sizing, Apple will increase the role Siri plays. At the current time, Siri is only able to be accessed by the push of a button. The iPhone 6 will feature Siri 2.0. Using an updated combination of GPS and unprecedented satellite surveillance, Siri will now be able to speak to you in real-time, telling you exactly what you should and should not be doing in all aspects of life.
According to Cook, Siri 2.0 is “already being used by the best developers in the country to design fitness and wellness apps.” Siri 2.0 will be able to know when you are nearing a local fast food joint or donut shop and guide you to the nearest health food store. If that does not work, Siri 2.0 will actively berate you until you find yourself eating healthy to avoid your phone’s nagging.
The iPhone 6 will also feature an updated iCloud.
“While storing documents, photographs, and music was step one in developing the iCloud, the new iPhone has quite a few surprises in store. For the low price of $150.00, the new iCloud will be able to store everything in your life including thoughts, memories, dreams, or ideas that have been cluttering up your mental hard drive. By downloading your thoughts to the iCloud, you can ensure that you will never forget a thing,” said Cook.
While the new features are definitely rave worthy, the most amazing upgrade is in the size department where the iPhone’s thickness will shrink from 0.3” to an unprecedented 0.07”. Of course, with this change, there have been a few features removed from the iPhone 6.
“After much brainstorming,” Cook said, “the engineers at Apple have decided that the phone portion of the iPhone is just cluttering up the device. In order to offer the sleekest product available, we have streamlined the iPhone by removing any and all ability to make phone calls.” Added Cook, “No one really does that anymore anyway.”
The iPhone 6 will be released September 12th, at which point rumors regarding the iPhone 7 will begin.
Once upon a time, there was a boy. Now this was not just any boy. Unlike all of the other boys in the world, this boy was the best at everything.
At school, this boy was the smartest. When the teacher asked a question, the boy would always raise his hand. He always knew the answer. Even when the teacher said the boy was wrong, he knew he was right. The teacher was just jealous of how smart he was and did not want to admit that the boy was much smarter than any teacher could ever be.
When the class went to recess, the boy was faster than all of the others. They would line up and race across the playground, their legs pumping as hard as they possibly could. While the boy never won, he knew that this was not because he was slow. This was because the other kids would cheat. See, they were all jealous of his ability to run, so they pretended they were faster than the boy was.
When the kids would show how strong they were, the boy knew he was way stronger than they could ever be. While they were climbing the jungle gym and pulling themselves across the monkey bars, the boy would stand there, smiling to himself. He would show the other kids how strong he was, but that seemed unnecessary. They all knew that he was the strongest kid in school, so why would he need to prove it?
Soon, the boy found himself alone at recess. The other kids would go about playing their games, but the boy never was invited. “They are all just jealous of me,” said the boy. “They want to be just like me, but no one can ever be as good as I am.” He knew that there were no kids good enough to be his friend in the class, so he would just as soon not be invited to play with them anyway.
One day, three tigers escaped from the nearby zoo. As the children went to recess, they saw the three tigers wander onto the playground. One by one, the kids began to run back to the school, seeking the safety of the brick and mortar. The boy watched the kids run, then looked back at the tigers.
“What is wrong with these kids?” said the boy. “They are all such crybabies. There is no reason to run from those big cats. I am far smarter, faster, and stronger than those cats can ever be.” While the kids all went back to class, the boy walked up to the tigers.
“Hello, tigers,” said the boy. “How are you? I know the other kids are afraid of you, but I am not afraid of you at all. See, I am the strongest, smartest, and fastest boy there is. There is no reason to be afraid of you. Now, would you three like to come play with me?”
The three tigers looked at each, then back at the boy. They walked up to him. The boy was very excited. Finally he would have friends that were just as strong and fast as he is. The biggest tiger stood in front of the boy and he reached out his hand to pet the tiger.
Then the tigers mauled and ate him.
The moral of the story: humility goes a long ways. This is particularly true when around angry jungle cats.
It was a week ago today. A friend was moving into a new home. As I am an incredibly good friend, I opted to help. I lifted and carried and lugged and hoisted, loading everything into a large truck before heading to my friend’s new home.
That is when tragedy struck.
I was helping to pick up a set of drawers when, without warning, the dresser began to tip back. Using massive upper body strength the likes of which have only been told of in ancient mythology, I tilted it back just in time. It did not hit me in the face, but rather just barely scraped the corner of my glasses. We began to walk, but something did not feel right.
We continued on, me ignoring the nagging feeling I had. Out of the truck and down a hill we went. Finally, we reached the basement door and went inside. I reached up and my worst fears were realized. That tiny scrape had been just enough to break the already fragile frames of my glasses.
The rest of the day was spent with me carefully avoiding anything that would completely finish off my glasses. When I arrived home, I gave them to my wife, hoping she could fix them and restore vision to me. She pulled out one of the greatest inventions in history, Gorilla Glue, and set to work. Within minutes, my glasses were back together.
This lasted all of 24 hours. I arrived home from work the next day and went to change clothing. As I lifted the shirt over my head, I felt the all-to-familiar “pop” of the frames separating. Another trip to the glue, and my glasses were back together.
Then, with a scratch of my head, Tuesday brought the same fate that Monday had. Another gluing job, and they were back together again. It seemed like maybe this whole gluing thing was not a permanent situation. I began to locate an optometrist, hoping to procure new glasses.
Thursday, I went through all of their tests. They blew air in my eye. They made me stare at the bright green dot. They asked, “which is better, one or two or one or two or maybe three.” At the end, I had a clean eye bill of health. I went to the large wall of glasses, attempting to find new frames that met my criteria: first, they needed to fit my giant bulbous head. Second, they should not be broken.
With the help of the lady that works there, I tried on dozens of pairs of glasses. Finally, I slipped on what must have been my 357th pair of frames.
“Ooooooo!” the two ladies behind the desk said in unison. It is rare that two people will respond so favorably in unison, but I had gotten it and I was taking it. I selected those frames, had my pupils measured, learned that pupil placement affects the lenses of glasses, and then paid. I was ready for these glasses, glasses where no glue would be required.
“Okay,” the woman said in her thick southern drawl. “Those should be here in 7-10 days. I will give you a call when they’re here and you can just come by and grab them.”
My heart sank. That meant 7-10 more days of these broken glasses. As I walked out of the office, I heard sad music in my head. I trudged down the stairs and to my car in the parking lot. Sitting down, I sighed. Then I realized something. My glasses had been intact for almost 48 hours now. Maybe I had finally glued them perfectly. These 7-10 days would fly by. In fact, I could probably just cancel my glasses order because these were going to last forever.
They fell apart on the way home.
Two more repair attempts brought us to today. I had a great idea. I had purchased epoxy putty. Using this, my glasses would effectively become invincible. My wife followed the directions, again working as my eyes. She worked hard, carefully molding the putty around the frame as if this had been her craft for her entire life. Finally, she handed them to me.
“These should be fixed now,” she said. I slipped them onto my head and they immediately came apart.
“I know I saved my old glasses,” I said, clearly frustrated. “I have no idea where they are, though.”
“Hold on,” she said, walking to the bedroom. She came back with a pair of glasses that I had originally gotten five years ago. They were entirely intact.
While all of this may seem good, there is an issue. My eyes have yet to adjust to this old prescription, and presently, the world looks like it is in a fishbowl to me. For the next week and a half, I will feel like I am an aquatic creature living my life in some sort of concave crystal. It will be a long 7-10 days.
On the bright side, I will have so much free time now that I have cut out the “gluing my glasses back together” part of the day. I might be able to pick up a new hobby. You know, just as long as it does not involve seeing clearly.
Social media can be a very useful tool. It can be a great way to spread breaking news. Studies show that social media can help improve life satisfaction and overall well-being. It can help facilitate political change, promote good deeds throughout a community, disarm social stigmas, and help law enforcement catch and prosecute criminals.
For some people, that last part is a huge problem.
The beginning of this story starts in 2012. Young Colleen Cudney was convicted for drunk driving. As happens so often in these situations, the judge determined that Colleen should be placed on probation. This probation would require random Breathalyzer tests as part of her probation would be to remain sober.
Flash forward to present(ish) day. The day of St. Patrick had passed. For those unfamiliar with St. Patrick’s day, the general theme of the day seems to be drinking. You are supposed to drink and drink and drink, then vomit, then return to drinking. This is due to the final words that St. Patrick managed to get out on his deathbed, using the last of his strength to somehow utter, “Please, make everyone have 25-30 drinks in my memory.”
No doubt because of this tradition, Colleen was called to her probation office for a Breathalyzer test. She got up and made the trip to Westland, Michigan. After breathing into the machine, it was determined that Colleen had passed! Celebrations abounded. The city of Westland nearly shut down as crowds erupted into the street, singing and dancing in merriment.
Colleen decided to celebrate in her own way, though. As a member of the millennial generation, she decided to mark the occasion with a Facebook post letting everyone know the results of her test:
“Buzz killer for me, I had to breatalyze this morning and I drank yesterday but I passed thank god lol my dumba**.”
Aside from Colleen’s inability to spell breathalyze and confusing decision to say “buzz killer” not “buzz kill,” there was one major problem with this. As you might recall from the list of things social media can do, one of the items is helping law enforcement catch and prosecute criminals.
After noticing this on Facebook, a Westland police officer decided to give Colleen’s probation officer a head’s up. I imagine the phone call went like this:
“Yeah, hi. This is Officer Johnson. Are you the probation officer for Colleen Cudney?”
“Why, yes Officer Johnson. I certainly am.”
“Oh, good. You are not going to believe this.”
The probation officer gave Colleen a call as is customary in this situation, letting her know that she would be required to come in for a urine test. That phone call went like this:
“Yes, Colleen Cudney? This is your probation officer. We are going to need you to come in for a urine test.”
-Sound of Colleen hanging up the phone-
As it turns out, hanging up the phone on your probation officer after you admit to breaking the rules of your probation on Facebook for the entire world to see is a probation violation. She will go to court soon to find her fate.
I think we all have learned a very important lesson about social media today. It can be tempting to share every moment of your life on Facebook or other similar sites, but it can lead to some trouble.
Remember kids: Social media – good, implicating yourself because you have no social media filter – bad.