Madison walks into Clarences with her eyes fixed on her phone. Her friends let out a white-girl cheer, but Madison doesn’t look up. She is far too busy checking in on Facebook, “Gin & Tonic with my main bitches 😛 xxx”. She periodically checks her phone every 2 minutes to bear witness to the flurry of Facebook love her check-in deserves: 2 fucking likes. One from a meme-sharing yoghurt cock and the other from her mother. Deep down she is seething in anger, but to the rest of the world, she is bare-backing the YOLO facade like the GPS-cunt she is.

Madison checks her phone for the 88th time and accepts that her check-in is unlikely to rack up anymore likes, “come on bitches, let’s go to Five”. She checks in before she has even walked through the door. Throughout 4 hours she drags her BFF’s to Must, The Scotto, Zambreros and then back to Clarences, “Back for more 😛 this bar can’t even handle us!”. She has left a slimey check-in trail like an extroverted slug making its way towards the lettuce leaf of Facebook exhibitionism.

The following day Madison commits an act of location-tracking shame, she checks in at Perth airport to alert her Facey contacts about her impending work trip to Melbourne, “work trip #LoveMyJob #DoWhatYouLove #QANTASClub”. The post flashes up on everyone’s screen like an unsolicited dick pic from a guy who rocks Everlast sneakers and 3/4 length WuTang parachute pants. A cretinous assault on the eyes.

Madison’s shameless circus rolls on, and she goes full cycle and checks in at Melbourne airport upon landing. “Krispy Kreme come at me! #WorkTrip #FatCow #Melbs”. An hour later she is sitting in her hotel room and feels compelled to one-up her own desperation, she pulls out her phone and detonates a gay-bitch bomb, “Hotel gym #fitness #WorkHardPlayHard #KrispyKreme”. Her endless check-ins float around Facebook like a pub toilet turd.

Madison returns to Perth and sets the standard for unnecessary-ness and checks in to her own fucking dwelling, “home sweet home #Netflix #NoPantsTuesday”. If society were a king-sized bed, then Madison would be the post-intercourse wet patch that seems impossible to avoid.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

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