The Chronicles of Barnia

Friends forever

It's the most magnificent beard I've ever seen. In fact, to call it a mere "beard" is a travesty. Beautifully developed, expertly shaped and lovingly manicured, it's like a piece of art that's actually worth paying for.

I haven't seen Marco since the day we finished high school. He was the guy everyone wanted to be, or at least be seen with. If you were genuinely his friend, well, I've got four words for you: Dawson from Dawson's Creek. We've had no contact since then but, from the look of him, Marco either went into Formula One racing, after-shave modelling or hosting Club Med parties; something super exotic at any rate.

And now, here he is again, staring magnetically at me because Mark Zuckerberg reckons Marco and I might know each other. Marco has 2,682 Facebook friends (no surprises there), and his photo gallery resembles a decade of Cannes Film Festival after-parties.

I really want to be 2,683.

Not because I need to live vicariously through a sweet-smelling, racing-car-driving, Club Med employee or anything. My life is great. Amazing even. I'm almost due for government-funded long service leave - not everybody can say that. But it's good to be friends with a variety of people - even just on Facebook - because it helps expand your horizons. And that's important because . . . no way, there's a picture of me in Marco's gallery!

It's a shot from our old school days - somebody's eighteenth birthday party by the look of my casual Stussy pants and roll neck sweater. I'm not tagged in the photo, but that's probably because I'm only half in the frame, walking in the background as three young men drape their arms around each other, smiling like they have futures full of hope and girlfriends and increased muscle tone. Not my experience to date.

I hover over the Send him a friend request link. I haven't been this nervous since I tried to ask Caitlin Cleaver to my eleventh grade dance. I hung up forty-seven times between dialling the last number and hearing the first ring before eventually reaching her answering machine. Channelling the same courage that finally got me through to Caitlin's dad's recorded voice, I click the friend request link.

Over to you now, dear Marco.

Staring unblinkingly at a computer screen isn't always the best tactic for action, but it gets me through most days at work, so I employ it now. Just as my eyes are about to crack from fatal moisture deficit, Zuckerberg smiles on me and MARCO ACCEPTS MY FRIEND REQUEST! He's online right now, which is a perfect excuse to post on his wall. I go for a "yo, s'up, I just flew in from Hollywood" kind of feel:

Hey Marco, man. Saw your Throwback Thursday photo. Reminds me of the old days. Hope you're well, brother.

I think about using an exclamation mark, but decide it would make me look needy and desperate, two words that are definitely not associated with flying in from Hollywood. I settle, instead, for refreshing my screen every 3.6 seconds to see if he likes my wall post.

Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

Notification alert - he likes it! I can't stop now, given that we are officially re-building rapport, so I go again:

Looks like you're living the dream, man. You still chillin' with Farley?

Farley was another of the high school elite. I should really be friends with him too.

Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

Nothing. He's probably waiting for a follow-up post, so I'll show him that I'm still cool enough to be keeping up with pop culture, even though I work for the government:

Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like the guy from the film Made of Honor?

Then I realise that I'm the only man I know who has seen, let alone owns, a copy of this 2008 classic. So I post again to clarify:

I mean Patrick Dempsey. He's also in Grey's Anatomy.

I've never actually watched Grey's Anatomy - on too late at night - but a quick Google search reveals that there are a number of spectacular three-day-growths among the cast. This is a potential point of confusion, and social media is about exactitude, not ambiguity. So I copy and post a photo of Dempsey at the height of his beard-rocking powers.

And then I sit back and look at my five posts on Marco's wall, ending with a picture of a devastatingly handsome man who's wearing scrubs and looks like he's about to diagnose you with something not even Dr House could pronounce.

I am overcome by the exact same feeling of nausea and self-loathing that assaulted me after leaving my eighth message on Caitlin Cleaver's answering machine.

Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

The wall posts disappear. Marco has unfriended me.

You suck, Zuckerberg.