There is no polite way to say to a friend, “I enjoy you just fine in person, but as far as your online persona goes, I want to reimagine Kirk Franklin’s ‘Stomp’ all over your phone and whatever other product you own with Internet access. Why? Because I fucking hate you online, bitch.”

Thanks to the implosion of social media and our collective crackhead-like addiction to it— combined with the growing need to overshare—I’m learning things about my friends that I would’ve never known, or at the very least, would’ve taken a very long time to notice.

For example, while I’m not as averse to having respectful conversations about religion and politics with my friends, I’m a choosey lover when it comes to that, and even then I prefer to keep such chatter to a minimum. And yet, whenever I go to Facebook (in a time machine to share my articles), my homepage might as well be called the “Hallelujah For Hosanna” bulletin board. That’s fine for the most part, but there’s always that freak for Jesus who wants to go Commando Christian and thump everyone upside the head with their Bible. Where is Moses to part your ass from my feed?

Worse are the people who know as much about politics as a three-hour old baby. Then again, I suppose I’ll take that person over the YouTube false prophets who swear Satan co-wrote “Partition” and is trying to take over the world, one D'ussé purchase at a time. There are too many libraries still open for anyone to be so damn stupid.

Then there's Twitter, where diarrhea of the thoughts has a daily orgy. 

Friend, I hate that you think you’re Iyanla Vanzant when, in real life, you’re about two mistakes away from ending up on Maury, Steve Harvey, or some other daytime talk show for people who need to cut out the bullshit and get right.

Friend, I hate that you’re casually sexist, homophobic, or in some cases, racist.

Friend, I hate that you think being a mean-spirited, miserable asshole is amusing. I’m sure the other mean-spirited, miserable assholes are coaching you on, but you’re not going to want to share a cot in hell with them.

Friend, I hate that you think you’re Iyanla Vanzant when, in real life, you’re about two mistakes away from ending up on Maury, Steve Harvey, or some other daytime talk show for people who need to cut out the bullshit and get right.

Friend, I absolutely hate that you’re one of those people who shames broke people. If I went by Twitter, I would assume everyone is sipping the finest Kool-Aid from diamond encrusted red solo cups as they tweet from your Italian villa. Do you know how hard it is for me to hold back the urge to say, “How are you talking about broke folks when you’re paycheck to paycheck like my ass?” Or in some cases, credit card scam to credit card scam.

Friend, I understand your mission to save the world, one sternly worded tweet at a time, but cut that concern trolling shit out. Are you really that worried about the cause—or your follower count?

And for the love of God, friend, if you have my contact information, stop tweeting me shit you could easily ask via text, email, or Gchat. You already know I tweet too damn much as it is.

Some of these reasons may seem petty. I’m fine with that. Some of these offenses are why I use Tweetlogix, Tweetdeck, and Echofon since each allows you to mute people on Twitter. 

And hey, some of my friends may hate me online for other reasons, too. Even so, from this day forward, if I never, ever mention anything you say on Twitter or Facebook again, know that it’s because I’m trying, very, very hard to still like you despite your not knowing when to shut the hell up.

Michael Arceneaux is from the land of Beyoncé, but now lives in the city of Master Splinters. Follow him at @youngsinick.