LeeAnn Kitts wants to know if we can be Facebook friends.

This is what I learn last Tuesday.

LeeAnn Kitts wants to know if we can be friends and she also cut her hair Annie Lennox short, is posing with what appears to be a one hundred pound rottweiler and seems like she could easily fill the role of Pony Boy Curtis in the movie The Outsiders. That is to say, she likes girls now.

This shouldn’t be that surprising as on more than one occasion in high school, LeeAnn Kitts chased down girls in the hallway, tackled them to the ground and then proceeded to simultaneously feel them up and give them hickies, all the while yelling out, “I’m touching your boobies!!!” and this was as close as people got to being gay in Colorado Springs. In hindsight, that’s actually pretty fucking gay but LeeAnn Kitts was Homecoming Queen, a Christian and very popular, so the mere idea that her shoving her hand up your shirt while licking the side of your face was anything but a fun, innocent game was outside the realm of possibility.

Here’s something else about LeeAnn Kitts: she was annoying. She was more annoying than a bird outside your window at 7:00 A.M on a Saturday. In addition to doing innocent/obviously, super duper, hyper gay stuff in the hallways, she liked to wear XXXL basketball shorts to school and spend the whole day being like, “These are XXXL basketball shorts! They’re huge! They’re huge. Yo. Yo. Yo. Check out my shorts. Yo.” Yep. That was our Homecoming Queen. That was my high school. What could possibly be more hilarious than a soccer player in really large basketball shorts?

She was really popular, so I had to be careful about telling people how fucking annoying I felt she was, but I made a point of sharing this fact with my older brother, Ryan. I don’t believe him, but he insists that he likes everyone and LeeAnn Kitts is no exception to the rule. He makes a disappointed face when I tell him that she asked me to be Facebook friends and after some thought, I denied her. He kind of crosses his arms and gives me a look that I interpret as meaning: what kind of bitch do you have to be to deny a Facebook friend request from someone you haven’t seen in ten years?

“She was annoying,” I respond.

My father is having a brief moment of kumbaya and decides to weigh in on the debate. “Are you being a snob again?”

I didn’t point out to my father that snobbery is a thing of stagnance and is not something that comes and goes like an ocean tide, but I also don’t feel the need to justify myself. “It’s not enough for you that I tolerated her in high school? Now, I need to continue to pretend to like her/validate my social status by being friends with her on a social networking site? Do you consider large basketball shorts the makings of high brow humor?”

My father reconsiders. He has a look on his face that suggests he actually doesn’t care.

Two days later I receive another Facebook friend request from a girl I like to call Bushy Brows — whom I don’t remember well from high school, but whom I remember disliking. Seriously disliking. I don’t know why people think the invention of a social networking site will suddenly erase my residual feelings of said person being a total fucking bitch all through high school and so it is with great power that I press decline on the Facebook friend request and sit back in my chair, so smug and self-satisfied. I email my coworker, Trisha, news of said powerful events and her neutralizing response is something along the lines of I bet those people cry themselves to sleep tonight.

To which I reply, You’re my favorite bitch.

To which she replies, At least I’m not part of some retarded networking thing for highschoolers.

In his introduction to Kingsley Amis’s “Everyday Drinking,” Christopher Hitchens (may he live to down another thousand martinis) notes that while alcohol itself does a good job of making life less boring, alcohol enthusiasts are always at risk of becoming bores on the subject of their enthusiasm. The tequila enthusiast, for example, may unwittingly one day find that he is a man with twelve unique hand-blown glass bottles of craft-brewed tequila on his mantle, each with a thirty-minute story behind it that he is eager to share, and every one of those stories deadly—because the alcohol bore (of course) fails to note that his enthusiasms aren’t necessarily the stuff of deep interest to others. That’s what makes them enthusiasms.