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In middle school I knew a girl named Cece who collected boyfriends on Facebook. She would friend request every man that came up on her feed, message them asking to be their girlfriend, and add their name to a growing list. She sorted them into sections based on their ages, geographical locations, and jobs. She ranked them and the order changed every day. We placed bets like it was fantasy football.
Some of the men lived in our state but all of them were a way's away because we lived in the middle of nowhere. Most lived in America, all across 45 states, which Cece was working on (Hawaii, Rhode Island, South Dakota, Wyoming, and Montana were being difficult). Some were younger and most were older. Most worked in fast food or retail or hard labor. Some worked in tech and law and advertising and academia and talent management. Some helped Cece with her homework, which propelled them to the top of the ranking. Some sent her unsolicited dick pics, which plunged them to the bottom. Some sent her voice memos. Some begged to meet her. Some accused her of cheating. Some sent her gifts to her P.O. Box. Sometimes it was jewelry that she would pawn for money. Sometimes it was lingerie that she'd let us try on at sleepovers.
Cece could never post on Facebook because the comments would be flooded by her army of boyfriends. She shut off the feature that let friends post on her wall. She made her list of friends private so only she could see it. She had a secret account just for her friends. On there, she would post status updates about the boyfriends. It helped her keep track of them.
The intention behind Cece's Facebook boyfriend collection changed depending on her mood. Sometimes she said it was a psychological experiment to collect data on the male psyche. Other times it was a research project on modern romance. Other times it was just for fun because she was bored.
Some of the boyfriends told her to read Marcus Aurelius. Some told her to listen to Neil Young. Some told her to play Zelda. Some told her to watch Trainspotting. Some told her to listen to Linkin Park. Some told her to watch Death Note. Some told her to read Marx. Some told her to play Minecraft. Some told her to resist feminism and submit to men. Some told her to watch M*A*S*H. Some told her to listen to Playboi Carti. Some told her to roll her own cigarettes. Some told her to watch the Coen Brothers. Some told her to read Chekhov. Some told her to play Call of Duty. Some told her to watch Project X. Some told her to try LSD. Some told her to read Chuck Palahniuk. Some told her to watch Harmony Korine. Some told her to listen to The Grateful Dead. Some told her to run away from home. Some told her to watch Rick & Morty. Some told her to listen to Smog. Some told her to get an accountant. Some told her to drink Mike's Hard Lemonade. Some told her to buy a gun. Some told her to watch Lord of the Rings. Some told her to read Kurt Vonnegut. Some told her to check out 4chan. Some told her to watch Mid90s. Some told her to play GTA. Some told her to read Frank Herbert. Some told her to listen to J. Cole. Some told her to drop out of school.
Cece didn't drop out of school but she died in eighth grade, right when we were about to graduate into high school. She overdosed on Facebook boyfriends. There was a small funeral that few attended because no one could post about it on her Facebook wall. The silence drove all of the Facebook boyfriends crazy. They were running amok all over the website, trying to figure out what happened to her. Gradually they all became aware of each other and made a gigantic Facebook group where they discussed their experiences with Cece. They called for her death.
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