Me: (Oh hey, it’s Steve.)
Former Acquaintance Steve: (Oh hey, it’s Robert, approaching fast on the sidewalk.)
Me: (Man, I haven’t seen Steve in a year, since that party Nick took me to.)
Former Acquaintance Steve: (Robert was really cool, if I remember.)
Me: (I guess Steve and I never really knew each other that well, come to think of it.)
Former Acquaintance Steve: (I wonder if Robert even remembers me?)
Me: (Should I even say hi?)
Former Acquaintance Steve: (I think it would be awkward if I said hi.)
Me: (I think I should say hi.)
Former Acquaintance Steve: (Yes, I should probably say hi.)
Me, passing Steve: (silence)
Steve, passing me: (silence)

There is a distinctive species of people I refer to as “ex-acquaintances.” Yes, they are still technically in the genus of “acquaintances.” You’ve met them before, and you clearly recognize them by face and by name. But there is one thing that separates these people from the normal acquaintances you know and love to casually say hi to as you pass them on Lowry Mall. You have not seen ex-acquaintances in kind of a long while, and during the course of this period of time, you and this person have made a silent yet ever-strengthening agreement to start pretending like neither of you have ever met.

On the surface, it seems pretty effective, until it actually happens to you, and you realize no one’s really bullshitting anyone here. I know damn well Steve remembers me from those couple of parties we hung out at back in the day — like that one time when I shot compressed air through his nose and we snorted Pixy Stix dust and had orange nosebleeds. That’s not something you just forget, Steve. And yet, there we go, acting like we’ve never shared the bond of the mutual sensation of first-degree burns in our nasal glands. It’s sad.

Admittedly, there is some advantage to this active acquaintanceship amnesia. There are, after all, 33,000 people on this campus on a near-daily basis. Anyone with semi-functional social skills is going to meet a fair number of these people along the winding journey of college. I can understand how it might get a little exhausting saying “hello” or giving that casual head nod to every third person that walks by on the sidewalk, especially when these acquaintances are clearly never going to coalesce into any kind of remotely meaningful relationship. It’s the same way on the Internet. I’m not wishing you a happy birthday, Kellie Kraznik, no matter how many times Facebook tells me to. I haven’t spoken to you since the seventh grade, and I like it that way.

Indeed the delicate nature of ex-acquaintances is only exacerbated when Facebook involves itself. It’s that much more difficult to make the silent contract of non-friendship when the two of you actually are, by definition, Facebook friends. Of course, now that I’ve seen Steve at least once a week doing stupid shit on my news feed, his face is undeniably imprinted in my mind. And I know from all the great, blurry pictures I’ve put up from every party I’ve ever attended that Steve has seen me, too. There has to be a simple way to carry the silent contract over to the Internet. I’m patiently waiting for Mark Zuckerberg to turn Facebook friendships into one-year subscriptions that expire if you don’t renew them.

In real-life application, though, it’s best to take it case by case. Generally, I do tend to ignore ex-acquaintances. I consider those people failures to generate a successful friendship with me, and I punish them with my silence. Barring the cuteness and girl-ness of their nature, I politely and quietly leave them to their lives.