According to American law, corporations are people, so surely a non-capitalist Facebook group can receive a love letter, frothy with sap for which I’ll probably be reamed proper. We don’t really talk politics here. We don’t really talk Pearl Jam here, though it’s a Pearl Jam group, and like how Pearl Jam doesn’t do much it’s “supposed to do” except make records and play live, we are irreverent foul-mouths to idols false and true. What other sins can I commit and still ask you to love me—quote the band? No way. Talk about how hot Vedder is? Too distracted by “what do you look like today” threads with people who actually have a shot at sleeping with each other. Be a jerk? Um, love letter. Bum everyone out? Here’s where it gets tricky for me; I’m the kind of woman who throws a rager in her Honda CR-V, is life of the party in her own mind and mouth, but Facebook makes me feel at turns like I’m being followed down a dark alley or naked snap-chatting with all my exes and their moms: scared and awkward AF. Anxious. Did I say that I need you? Dammit. I do. I need a space where nothing is expected of me except my occasional voice, even if I think my typing looks like it’s shaking while everyone else has moved on to deciphering accents via selfeos (I refuse to say velfies). I don’t even know if my voice will record, but I want to see what you eat while you’re eating it, taste your weird beers by holding my phone to my mouth and breathing in too deep. I want to vote on what record you’ll listen to next. I want a vote where it might count. A belly laugh when I’m supposed to be in a meeting. Yes, comments on all my comments, you cunts!—who doesn’t want to belong? We’re scattered all over a space rock burning from the inside out, but I can see your socks. That’s something, right?