You see, there is this guy.

And this guy decided that it was his mission in life to personally hound me — day and night, night and day, asleep, awake, on the can, outside my window in a little shack constructed out of milk cartons and egg shells, serenading me with insidious yet beautiful music — until, when I could take it no more, I sold my soul to the Devil.

The Devil called Facebook.

And now? I have about as much chance of getting out as Michael Corleone.

Damn you, you damned dirty stinking junk peddler.

Damn you.

Just you wait.

I’ll freaking “poke” you.

[Runs away sobbing into the night.]