Fakebook by Dave Cicirelli Page A

what I feel and what I express.”
    It was over one of these lunches that I’d first told Elizabeth about Fakebook, back when it was still just an idea. She’d loved it and promised to help, and of course she had. Her comments brought a balance to the testosterone-driven ballbusting from Ted and Steve—something I thought would be especially important after the introduction of Amish Kate. If only I’d gotten the chance.
    â€œDave…” she said, drawing my name out in her endearing, girlish way. “That Photoshop was really bad.”
    â€œI know…” I looked down at the unwieldy piece of barbecue chicken I’d settled on.
    â€œI mean, even the resolutions didn’t match. You should always scale things down to the lowest quality image.”
    â€œYeah, I don’t know what I was thinking.” I scooped up a forkful of runny sweet potatoes. They were pretty good. “The really scary thing is I loved it when I made it. I thought it was really funny. It was late—and I think I was just blinded by the joy I get out of doing ridiculous things. I know what you’re saying, though. I could have been much more careful. Turns out I can blow it even with a girl I made up.”
    Elizabeth was looking back at me with her involuntary compassion.
    â€œWell, maybe the margin of error is over. If you really want to keep doing this, you need to take it seriously. You need to set a shot list and give yourself a library of photos you can use with all sorts of different light settings. Be professional about it.”
    â€œThis thing is really…” I tried to get out. “It’s sort of a knot of a thing.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell…it’s hard to explain. There are all these threads, and each one I feel a different way about. Part of it is funny, part of it is twisted, part of it is mean or interesting or silly. Like…I feel guilty when people take it seriously. I feel excited and thrilled when people really believe it. I feel empowered when I create a new post and someone goes for it—when I’ve made something that makes their version of the world a little stranger. It’s a crazy feeling.
    â€œBut then I feel powerless when I can’t control their reactions. This version of myself I created as a joke is more important to people than the real me ever was. It’s insane to become jealous of yourself. It’s this strange feeling of rejection. At the same time, now that people are turning on him, I feel betrayed. It doesn’t make any sense.
    â€œAnd every time I sit down to write a new Fakebook post or make a new image,” I continued, “I just feel crippled. I tug on any one of those threads, and the whole thing becomes more knotted.”
    â€œMaybe,” Elizabeth said, “you just need to not think so much about it. If it’s torturing you, I think you need to either stop doing it or stop worrying about the things that are making it difficult.” She paused. “But I think you should keep doing it.”
    She sat there, collecting her thoughts. “It just feels…”
    â€œYeah…”
    We shared an unspoken understanding. We’d spent hours and hours of studio time together. Fakebook, for all its frustrations and headaches, was unique. We both knew the value of a truly original idea. We both knew how rare those ideas were—and how delicate.

    After work, I kicked off my shoes, plugged in my laptop, and sat on my unmade bed.
    Dave Cicirelli
Here’s another picture of a horse. Hope you like it.

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    Joe Moscone I’m bored by Amish country, perhaps even more than you are. Go somewhere with hot women and share those photos. Horses…carriages…children…enough already.
    2 days ago via mobile · Like
    Matt Riggio I must say, this is truly a far cry from the adventure that I’ve been expecting. Don’t TP