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When Facebook was still an unwieldy kingdom of college students with far fewer users and functions, a reliably entertaining use of the platform was creating fake romances between users with the relationship feature.

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I was 12 years old when I went to my first concert. My dad took me and two friends, and I remember being so amazed that the Backstreet Boys had come to my town. “I brought you a delicious bass,” whispers Geoff, offering me a plastic cup and a wink. Conor Oberst is drunk tonight—India tells me he always is, that up close he smells like beer and Frito Pie—and he guzzles a Shiner between every song. I’d put a fucking gun to my head before I’d live in your state.” “Fuck yeah! Chad and Kyle keep their middle fingers in the air. “If you came to this show tonight, you’re probably not a normal Texan,” Conor says. “If you were a normal Texan, you’d probably be roping steers and raping Indians.” Geoff whoops, and I shoot him a disapproving look. “It’s not very funny.” “Please, Eckleman,” he says, kicking out his long legs. Maybe it’s my imagination, but when he says it’s mandatory, I could swear he’s looking at me. ” “I thought she made out with him at an after-party.” “Whatever. Over the last few days, Kat has become increasingly obsessed with reading Geoff’s blog, which is unfortunate for several reasons, not the least of which is that, not having a computer, he rarely ever updates it. “Is there something going on between you and Geoff? I suspect that’s not true, that many guys probably are worth a friendship, but Geoff certainly isn’t one of those guys. When I went by his room this afternoon I heard giggling voices inside and just decided to blow it off altogether. “I swear to you: Nothing is going on with Geoff.” She takes a deep, quivering breath and regains her composure. “I just get so fucking mental after I have sex with a guy.” My phone rings, and I immediately turn it off.These jokesters would then proceed to marry off their celebrity avatars to their friends.One freshman was engaged to Bjork, another was dating Colin Farrell. “His voice,” he says, rolling a joint between his fingers. ” “I brought something,” I say, producing a bottle of Bacardi from my satchel. I know it’s corny when small-town girls say they were meant for bigger places, but that’s how I felt back then, when football players called my boyfriend a fag, when men in trucks spit on a Democratic Party sign in our front yard, when popular girls made fun of me for my grades, my hair, my stupid shoes. That Tuesday afternoon, Geoff and I spend hours in his dorm room listening to his Bright Eyes CD. I sit on the cold linoleum with a crusty towel underneath me. When he sings, “We are nowhere, and it’s now,” it makes me think of the town I grew up in, small and shabby and full of hate.

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