Social networking on the Internet has become a standard component of daily life. All day long, people are sneaking a quick look at Facebook, MySpace (at least I think people still do that) and Twitter during class or on the job, to the point that interaction with actual human beings practically has become an archaic means of communication and an inconvenience.

It would seem that more conventional means, like using vocal chords, are somehow incomplete and do not offer “users” a wide-enough range of ways to participate.

And now a new force in the world of social networking has arisen, one based on a little saying that somehow has become commonplace among depressed text messagers and pretty much anyone who has ever seen “Superbad.”

That little phrase is “Fuck my life.” I have never been a fan of the phrase. Something about it always seemed wrong. It has that whiny little kid “I wish I was never born!” feel to it – only worse. It sounds like a harsh conclusion to reach just because you missed this week’s episode of “Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels.”

But it’s your life, homie, not mine. If it is that bad, then I’m sorry for my lack of consideration. Otherwise, please consider toning down the drama levels.

The phrase often appears as “FML,” or a number of other varieties. And now, thanks to millions of losers across America, we have Fmylife.com, a place for all these miserable pricks to share their tales of woe with the world.

The site is made up of anecdotes by anonymous authors and account-holding members of Fmylife.com, which are broken down into categories based on love, money, kids, work, health, sex or “miscellaneous.”

The posts follow a format that always concludes with the letters “FML” and gives readers the option to respond with “I agree, your life is f***ed,” or “You deserved that one.” My biggest gripe is that I can’t choose both.

Now, I would really prefer not to make any points on this matter at all. I would much prefer to use my column as a space for nonsense about giant slugs, and I wish I had something better to write about. But, as a social commentator and member of the press (read with sarcasm), occasionally duty calls.

I am not one to comment on pop culture or social trends because, well, I just don’t really give a damn about what is on your Twitter or why your life sucks.

Unfortunately, in this downsized brave new world, I am starting to feel pretty alone in regards to that sentiment.

A few weeks ago, there was actually a legitimate story on CBSSports.com regarding LeBron James possibly having a Twitter account, despite the fact that no “tweets” had been made. If that’s news, then FML.

This was only days after Milwaukee Bucks forward Charlie Villanueva made headlines (yes, headlines) for being reprimanded for Twittering or tweeting or twitting – or whatever the hell it is called – during half-time of a basketball game against the Boston Celtics. Villanueva, who obviously was exploding with poetic inspiration, wrote this little gem for his fans:

“In da locker room, snuck to post my twitt. We’re playing the Celtics, tie ball game at da half. Coach wants more toughness. I gotta step up.”

It would seem unthinkable that anyone would do this in the middle of a tied game against the defending champions, but welcome to our America. At least ol’ Charlie took his own advice, as the Bucks won 86-77 and he finished with 19 points.

But come on. In the middle of the game?

This is the world, though, and with social networking being so popular and universal, I guess this is what we’ve come to expect. So much so in fact, that I feel I ought to get in on the fun.

So try this on for size.

Today, I learned about the various features on Fmylife.com. During the course of my research, I realized that I had the ability to tell people they deserved what they got after reading their anecdotes. Then I realized I had wasted a perfectly good evening hypocritically participating on a Web site that I intended to rip on. FML.

No wait, how about this:

Today, YOU actually took the time to get on your computer (or I guess a cell phone or something else) after being dumped. You were on there long enough to prove that you really are an expendable dingleberry with nothing better going for yourself by sharing your sob story with the world. Fuck your life.

Seriously.

Nick Baker is a junior magazine journalism major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact him at [email protected].