Social Media Destruction

By Addison Plaisance

What if your whole life was published on the internet for the world to see?
More importantly, what if people could hack into your Twitter, your Facebook, and your Instagram accounts, and post things in your name, framing you to be something you're not?

This happens. It happened to my friends, and it ruined their lives.
This is their story.
The internet is information, and it is manipulated by corporations and governing bodies for their own means.
People have become tools to be used and disposed of.
Everything is a commodity.

This is the world we could live in, if we let it.
This book explores the good and bad of the internet and technology as it slowly consumes our lives - for better or worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796073737

Addison Plaisance

Addison Plaisance, single father, full-time scientist, and Ph.D. candidate, was raised in the small town of Patterson, Louisiana, and currently lives and works in Fargo, North Dakota. His work has been published in 3 scientific journals for his research in the field of nematology, but this is his premier full-length novel. His concerns are for the rapidly changing landscape of technology and how it impacts our everyday lives. He enjoys working in his greenhouse and teaching his 3 year old daughter about the world.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I bend on one knee. Falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.

Amy gasps and looks surprised.

I take the box from my pocket. From our first date, I knew I loved you. When you talked about the sunset.

Suddenly, Amy begins shuffling through her pockets. Oh my god, are you proposing? I need to Snapchat this.

I’m a bit confused. Okay, yeah, sure.

She turns on the app and places it at an angle above her head. Oh my god, y’all. James is about to propose. Then she looks at me, still kneeling, with a Well, get to it kind of expression.

Oh right. Well, I remember on our first date, you said the sunset was your favorite part of the day. You said you just loved the colors. So I did this …

I point to the balcony, where my plan finally grows to fruition. Four thousand balloons float from the lower level into view. The first layer is a deep blue, like the ocean. The second layer is orange, like the setting sun. The third is the purple above the light of our sun and finally the starlit deep navy.

It is magnificent—or so I think.

Amy’s eyes grow wide as the balloon-sunset recreation rises from under the balcony. Oh my god. Are you guys seeing this? He made a sunset out of balloons. That is so cool! It’s cool, right? she asks her Snapchat audience.

I laugh. So from our first date to our last, as boyfriend and girlfriend, I wanted to keep your favorite thing. And now … I open the box to reveal the result of three months’ salary—a shining diamond on a simple yet elegant gold band. I want to know. Will you marry me?

Amy squeals in joy and looks at her phone and back at me. Yes, yes, of course, I’ll marry you!

Well, that’s good. You had me nervous a bit there. Ha! Here. The ring goes on the left finger, I say sheepishly.

Huh? Oh yeah.

Her left hand is holding the phone as it hovers over our intimate moment, so she has to swap hands. There’s a little time for her to reposition the phone on the other side with her right hand, floating above our heads.

I put the ring on her. We’re engaged. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

Yes! We’re engaged! You see that? Oh my god, I’m so happy! she says to her phone.

That night, I sleep better than I’ve ever slept before in my life.

CHAPTER 2

I dream of warmth and happiness—never wanting, always loving—and I hear crying … Why crying? Is someone crying? My eyes open, and I turn on the lamp. It’s 7:21 a.m. Who’s crying? That’s Amy. Why?

She’s in the bathroom. I open the door, and Amy is on the floor, holding her phone. Her hair is in front of her face, but I can see her back heaving.

What’s wrong? I ask.

You dumbass! You fucking ruined it! she screams through tears.

What are you talking about? My voice is a little harsher than I intended.

Look! She shoves her phone to me.

I look. So what? It’s the video of the proposal. What’s the—

The comment section, dumbass! she shouts.

I begin to read.

Did this guy really put blue and orange next to each other? That’s not even complementary on the color wheel. Lame. — ladyshawna88, 54 likes

What a way to waste thousands of balloons. What, did he rob a kid’s party or something? —bobbyboo, 31 likes

I can’t believe she even said yes. The balloons are one thing, but wow, that ring is like something out of a Cracker Jack box. Definitely not a keeper. You can do better, girl. —lovefirsthoney, 28 likes

How NOT to Propose 101. — susanpride007, 22 likes

I chuckle. Wow. These guys are some real trolls, huh?

Amy looks at me with disgust. Those are my followers, asshole! Their opinions mean something to me. Don’t you get it?

I’m confused. But you have thousands of followers. Who cares what a few jokers have to say?

She shakes her head. Keep reading.

Reluctantly and not really believing what I’m hearing, I look again. The comments get worse—and darker—as I scroll down.

It would have been better if he tied himself to the balloons. Either he flies away or falls off the balcony. Either way, #shrug. — JohnnyTheBravo, 20 likes

Some marriages should just never happen. Exhibit A. — chuckiefinster, 18 likes

Wow, this guy should really just quit life. — theflyingamarant, 10 likes

Suicide incoming. Prepared the F key. — automaticautocratic, 9 likes

I don’t know what to say. I just look at Amy. Tears are streaming down her face.

Just get out, she says.

But I don’t— I try.

"Get out!" she screams and grabs a hairbrush, throwing it at me.

Okay, okay! I shuffle out of the bathroom.

"Get ooout!" she screams.

Thud, thud. More items hit the door as I exit. What the fuck, man? Why does this shit even matter? I get my bags and get ready for class, eating a piece of bread.

Before I leave, I go back to the bathroom and knock on the door. Hey, I gotta go to class. You gonna be okay?

No answer.

Amy?

Just go away is what she says.

Okay, Aim … I love you.

No response. I leave.

CHAPTER 3

I ride my bicycle across campus to Walster Hall and sit in my usual seat. Fuck. I hate statistics .

My friend Kal sits next to me. Hey, man, he says.

Hey, Kal.

He gives me a glance. Whoa. You’re looking down … Wait. I saw the proposal on Amy’s Instagram feed. Good job, man! Congratulations, he says, truly happy for me, but he notices I don’t smile. Dude, she said yes. And she’s a great girl. I’m sure y’all will be happy.

I sigh. Yeah, I know. You’re right. But some idiots on her feed made some comments about the engagement. And it got Amy all messed up about it.

Kal laughs. Man, the Internet is fucked up. You can’t let a few anonymous idiots dictate your emotions.

I nod. Yeah! That’s what I was trying to tell her, man! But there’s just so many of them. And, dude, the comments get dark. Like real bad.

Then suddenly, it dawns on Kal. His face drops. How many comments?

I don’t know, man. Like a few? Maybe a hundred? I say, wondering what the relevance is.

Holy shit. A hundred? All negative? And did these comments have likes? he says. Kal is growing visibly more concerned.

Uh, yeah. Like maybe twenty or thirty likes each or something? I say, beginning to realize the gravity of the situation.

Dude, Marv. Kal is looking at his phone. His Instagram is open. Look at this shit.

There were maybe a hundred posts this morning. In the matter of an hour, it has grown to over two thousand. Apparently, people have retweeted it. Someone even put the proposal on YouTube—2,423 likes. 6,889 dislikes. The comments there are even worse.

I stand up, looking at the phone. What the fuck!

Ahem. Dr. Horley is looking at me, and so are the rest of the class. Something to share, Mr. Greer?

I look around. Dammit. No, sir, but I … I have to go. I grab my bag and dip out of class. A second later, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I flip around. "What?"

It’s Kal. Whoa, whoa, easy. You still got my phone.

Oh shit. I’m sorry. I hand his phone back. "It’s just … Why does this online shit even matter, y’know? Like, I don’t even have Snapchat. Why should it fuck with my relationship?"

Kal sighs. "It doesn’t matter to you. But it does matter to a lot of people—apparently, Amy included."

I shake my head. I gotta go talk to her and put an end to this.

Kal quickly says, Stop. No, you should stay away from her for a bit. You’ll only make it worse. God knows what she might post next. Let her cool down a bit.

No. This is my life, and those idiots online have no right to screw with it because … because they don’t like a goddamn color palette! I shout. I take out my phone and text Amy. I’m coming home. See you soon.

No reply.

I get back on my bicycle and pedal as fast as I can. When I pull up to our apartment, I see a blue Toyota Tacoma with my leather couch in the back of it … Wait. That’s Amy’s dad’s truck.

I walk up, still breathing heavily. Hey, Mr. Thorston. What’s happening?

Amy’s father, Thomas Thorston, is a good man. He didn’t like the idea of Amy and me moving in together, but he realized I really loved her and even cosigned our lease.

Marv. Look, I’ve always liked you. But Amy called this morning and said she had to move out. Now I don’t know what you two are fighting about, but when my daughter wants something like this, I gotta do it, he says, his yellow beard shaking as he speaks.

But, Mr. Thorston. Amy and I didn’t even get into a fight.

His bushy yellow eyebrows rise up.

It was the proposal, I say.

Oh yeah, she mentioned that last night. Said it was beautiful. So … what’s the issue? he says, truly perplexed.

That’s just it. She loved it. I loved it. But she Snapchatted the proposal live. You know, with all the balloons and stuff. And apparently, her friends—not even her friends, just random people on the Internet—didn’t like it. They made fun of it! And I think Amy took it hard. And … although I respect her wishes, I really think this will all blow over and things will go back to normal, I try to explain.

Mr. Thorston frowns and nods. Well, I’m inclined to believe you. But, Marv … She called me crying. And … Wait, hold on. He pulls out his phone and opens the Instagram app.

You have Instagram, Mr. Thorston? I say, surprised.

He laughs. Yeah. I hate this shit, but Amy posts her entire life on it. And you know, I’m a parent. So it’s my right to worry. And to know what my daughter’s up to … just to make sure she’s safe. That’s all.

He looks at his phone for a few seconds. Oh is all that comes out of his mouth. After a minute of scrolling, he looks at me. Son, this sucks. And it’s not your fault. I thought the balloon thing was kinda cool. But … she’s my little girl. And she’ll stay at home for a little while, and I’m sure it will be okay. For now, can you help me strap in this damn sofa?

I laugh. He looks at me, questioning.

That’s my sofa, I say.

He laughs. Awww, hell.

CHAPTER 4

I text Amy once a day. I don’t want to be overburdening, but I want her to know I still care. She never answers. The two days following the proposal are the worst. The comment section bleeds of people who simply want to vent their darkest desires. A few of the comments get flagged and taken off YouTube. A week goes by, with still no answer from Amy. I even text Amy’s dad, Mr. Thorston.

He even replies, She’s still here. She’s safe. Don’t worry.

Luckily, after a week, the comments die down. No one cares anymore. It has already faded into the back of the Internet. You’d have to do a specific search just to find the proposal anymore.

I’m sitting in the cafeteria on campus.

Hey, dude, Kal says as he puts his tray down next to me.

Hey. What’s up? I say, not looking anywhere in particular.

I can feel his eyes studying me for a bit. Talked to Amy yet? Kal asks.

I sigh. I’ve been trying to. She never responds to my texts. I even tried calling her once.

No answer? Kal asks.

I just look at him in response.

Kal pulls out his phone. Well, you’re in luck. No new comments on Snapchat, YouTube, or Instagram for about four days now. So really, it was just a two-day burst of stuff.

I look at him. Any positive comments?

Uhhh … a few, yeah. But those didn’t get any likes, so they got pushed down to the bottom of the feed. The ones with the most likes, the darkest ones, are at the top as usual, he says.

I just stare.

Look, Marv, the storm’s died down. It’s been a week. If there ever was a time to go get her back, it’s now, Kal says, obviously trying to be a good friend.

I pause and sigh. Maybe you’re right. I’ll … I guess I’ll take an Uber over to her place after poly sci theory this afternoon.

Good. Want me to go with ya? Kal offers.

No, no. This is something I gotta do, I say. But thanks.

One uneventful fifteen-minute Uber ride later, I’m at the house of Amy’s parents. I walk up and knock on the door.

Mr. Thorston answers. Oh, hey, Marvin. What’s up?

I respond, Hey, Mr. Thorston. Is Amy around?

Oh. She was going somewhere with her friends Michelle and Karen. I’m not sure where … One sec. He pulls out his phone and opens Instagram. Yup. There. She just posted that they are at the mall at … Victoria’s Secret. He sighs, Good luck, man.

I thank him and call my Uber back. I walk through the mall twice. The amount of kiosks selling technology always amazes me—phone repair shops, custom wooden phone cases, some guy giving demos of the new virtual reality machines they are pushing nowadays. God, could you imagine the porn of the future?

I stand on the catwalk between the best-smelling perfume shop and that lamentable bear-building place, looking over the people walking below me. I count how many near collisions occur between people walking with their heads on their phones, and I’m at twelve when I hear a female voice call out, Marv?

I turn to see three girls: Michelle, Karen, and my beloved Amy. By god, her straight brown hair reflects the lighting as she walks. I miss her.

I step forward. Amy, we should—

She turns and begins walking away before I could finish my sentence.

I start to chase after her, but Michelle speaks up, It’s best you leave her alone. You’ve done enough already.

I’m baffled. What are you talking about? I’ve done nothing wrong.

Karen laughs. You really are that stupid, aren’t you?

Michelle looks at Karen. Their eyes meet, and Michelle speaks. Karen, go see to Amy. I’ll handle this.

Karen looks at me. Her blue eyes sting me from behind her blond hair. Gladly. She walks off with a sneer.

There stand Michelle, a.k.a. Shelly, and myself, like we’re staring each other down before a freaking duel or something. Unfortunately, I have a butter knife, and she has a sharp-ass katana.

I speak first. Michelle, this is stupid. She knows I would never do anything to hurt her.

Michelle sighs. Not intentionally, no. But think, Marv. Amy is a marketing student. She’s looking for jobs in the advertising field. Now she’s lucky if she gets hired by the goddamn Yellow Pages.

This strikes me. What? I don’t—

Michelle interrupts. Marketing and advertising companies don’t hire people based on their résumés, dumbass. They hire people based on their contacts, their network. If this were twenty years ago, you could say a person’s value is in their Rolodex—you know, that old thing people used to keep phone numbers and business cards in.

I’m a bit taken aback. So you’re saying that our engagement somehow messed with her … network?

Michelle rolls her eyes. More like torpedoed it. Do you not think that advertising firms look at a person’s social media? That’s the first thing they look at, even before a portfolio and damn sure before a CV. Nobody cares if your PowerPoint skills are off the charts. They care how many people will read what you have to say. They care how many eyeballs you can get on a product with a single tweet.

The gravity of the situation begins to dawn on me, but something’s not right. But wait, Michelle. Isn’t it true that any type of fame is good fame? Even dislikes and negative comments mean that if Amy posts something out there, she will have a wider audience. Trolls buy shit too, right? If anything, this helps her.

Michelle shakes her head. "I swear, it’s like I’m explaining digital marketing to a ten-year-old. No, Marv. Maybe if she was Beyoncé or Chris Pratt or fucking Trump, she could turn