I joined Facebook about nine months ago because I turned 30 about 9 months ago and realized the sunset of my youth demanded this social cuervo gold margarita. As 80 million of you know, it’s a pretty good time – then again 80 million people used to think worshipping the sun was a pretty good time, so we’ll see what the next iphone-toting Incan comes up with. Either way, I was thinking with our collective obsession around our physical appearance, Facebook is not enough. No one’s going to the gym to work out their face. …Ok, some of you psychos actually are. But I wanna start Bodybook.com. That way I could be friends with just your abs. All you need is an email address and a body, and you can join too! Sorry people with just heads! We’ll enter our body’s profile, let everyone know that our body likes Natasha Bedingfield but didn’t love No Country For Old Men. It’ll be awesome, trust me. Obviously there will be a profile picture of just your body, and we can all cut to the chase and stop pretending that faces and personalities matter. “God, I added Brad’s pecs as a friend almost a WEEK ago, and he hasn’t accepted! What the eff is going on??!!” Ok, maybe that’s the social margarita talking and it’s a terrible idea. But so is obsessing over your lats, calfs, and junk-butt. Life’s too damn short. Take it from a guy with the body of a baby giraffe. People can friend or date you for a hundred reasons, and if your triceps are in the top 5, you need to work out some entirely different sh*t.