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Can anyone help with why facebook is using 100% of my computers cpu on chrome

about 2 weeks ago, facebook on my pc has been almost unusable, ive tried and have been using the beta version was very fast at the begining faster then the current non beta version i did this a month or 2 prior, but the last 2 weeks everyday it gets slower, its to the point now clicking show all comments takes multiple clicks and longer then 10-15 seconds to load , and thats minimum everything is so laggy, i opened my task manager and seen that anytime facebook is open my cpu jumps to almost 100% even just sitting idle in an open tab in chrome, no other websites do this at all and my laptop is like 6 months old its a dell inspiron 5570, i actually added an extra 16gb of ram upping the ram to 20gb total, i know this has nothing to do with the cpu, but we all know how bad chrome is for using your ram...., but everything was fine up untill 2 weeks ago i dont understand what all the sudden changed, also to boot, i switched back to the classic, non beta version of facebook no improvements, if there are they are so minimal its almost not noticeable at all? i dont understand this because i was able to run fl studio multiple chrome tabs open and everything is fine, now just a youtube tab and a facebook tab are like struggling to run together and even if i close youtube, the cpu usuage only drops like 5-10% anyone have any idea or solution to this problem?
submitted by chronictokeseric to facebook

[MF] Landfall With Lloyd

1:01pm August 17th, 2021Eileen Court Okahumkee, FL
Gertie Samms, age 74, stands on her front porch next to Bay News 9 correspondent, Kim Meridian. Sandbags line the perimeter of her two-bedroom brick house, plywood covers the windows. If it weren’t for the manicured lawn and the clearly tended to flower beds hanging off the porch’s bannister, one might mistake it for another Okahumkee trap house. Kim checks her makeup one more time and signals for Steve to roll the tape.
“I’m here with Gertie Samms who tells me she’s lived in this home for over fifty years, and she isn’t about to leave it behind. Despite a mandatory evacuation order for one million residents on Florida’s Gulfcoast, thousands are defying the governor’s order and staying in their homes.” She turns to Gertie. “Ma’am, do you feel prepared to weather Hurricane Earl if the storm makes direct landfall in Okahumkee?”
Gertie nervously adjusts her glasses and speaks into Kim’s mic, “I feel prepared as I’m going to be. My late husband and I—well, we always stayed. Always. Irma was the last bad one they told us to evacuate from, and the last one he got us ready for. But you know, they always seem to change direction at the last minute. Irma got my orange tree.” She pauses and looks out in the yard at a conspicuous bare patch.
“—But we’ve always been fine. These nice young men across the street helped me with all this yesterday.”
“Neighbors have to stick together during hurricane season,” says Kim. “It looks like they’re hunkering down as well?” The camera pans to a nearly identical house across the way; shuddered, lined with bags, and made of bricks. There’s a lifted truck just shy of twelve feet tall in the driveway and an unattended charcoal grill just starting to smoke on the front walkway.
“They told me they’ll be here if I need anything,” Gertie responds. “They said our neighborhood isn’t under mandatory evacuation or in a flood zone or anything so we should be okay.” She notices the grill and adds, “Why, it looks like they’re having the party after all.”
“They said something about a hurricane party. I say let them have their fun. We were young once, right?”
“Ma’am, this is a potentially deadly storm, I hard—”
At the house across the street, the door flings open and a lanky fellow emerges carrying a tray of assorted meat in one hand and a PBR tallboy in the other. He stops to yell something indistinguishable over his shoulder to someone inside. He wears an apron, mirrored aviators, and not much else.
Kim wrinkles her nose and scoffs. “Sorry ma’am,” she says to Gertie, “Do you mind if we redo that last part?”
“No, that’s okay,” says Gertie, waving to the man grilling across the street.
The cameraman chimes in, “Kim, maybe we should get an interview with that guy. Ratings much?”
Kim knows these types. They’re liable to put on the mask of good manners for fifteen seconds and then, when they’re sure the footage is live, say something like “then I fucked her right in the pussy.” But, reluctantly, she agrees, thanks Gertie and wishes her good luck.
“Good afternoon, sir. Your neighbor tells me you’re hunkering down as well. Are you concerned for your safety?”
Lloyd takes a swig of beer and says, “Concerned? About the Cat 3 in the Gulf of Mexico at -83.6, 24.8 traveling at under fifteen miles per hour less than ten degrees west from due north?”
Kim looks at her cameraman with an ‘I told you this interview would be unairable’ glare. Steve shrugs and keeps filming.
“Nah, not really,” says Lloyd. “I’m more concerned about my boys not showing up to the party. I got food and beer to last a fortnight, but everybody’s skipping town. P–I mean, wussies.”
Close one, thought Kim. So far so good; she could wrap this up and head back to the studio where a helicopter would fly her and the remaining field team up to Jacksonville. How brazen can people be? Hurricane Earl would be ripping palm trees clean out of the ground tomorrow evening, and here was a whole cul-de-sac spitting in Mother Nature’s angriest of faces.
“I take it this is something you’ve done before?”
“Oh yeah,” says Lloyd, smiling like a baleen whale. “We had a five day rager during Irma. Went through six kegs and two hundred gallons of gas to keep the generators going. For some reason, everyone thinks this storm is going to be the ‘one.’ I’ve been hearing that for years; ‘oh this area is way overdue for a direct hit. It’ll be underwater if a cat five makes landfall!’ But I think it’s fear-mongering. We’re protected.”
“It’s the Tocobaga spell. It’s basic Tampa Bay history! Never heard about the sacrifices?”
“No, I–”
“They sacrificed people they captured from other tribes, probably hundreds–who knows? Basically they conjured a forcefield on this side of our great state from lat 27.7 to 28.3. We’re all good, baby!” At this, Lloyd chugs the rest of his beer and crushes the can. He pushes the aviators down on his nose, revealing grey eyes full of guile and regards Kim’s tight-fitting blouse. “Hey, you wanna come to the party? We’ve got plenty of liquor if beer ain’t your thing.”
“No, thank you. By the way, it was nice of you to find time to help Ms. Samms across the street in between all the party planning.”
Lloyd laughs and flips a burger. “Of course,” he says, “what are neighbors for?”
“There you have it, folks. In a community that has been so lucky for the past century, it’s easy to see why people believe this hurricane is just another storm, destined to veer off at the last second. Perhaps there is an unseen force protecting the Tampa Bay area. This has been Kim Meridian with Bay News 9. Stay tuned for more on Earl.”
The news van tears off south on US-19. Kim makes sure the last part of that interview—Lloyd undressing her with his eyes—wasn’t shown on the air. Lloyd continues grilling, periodically drinking PBRs, lighting cigarettes (A lot more than usual. Was it nerves?), and checking his phone for “yeah man, I’ll be there” or “how much beer should I bring?” And despite the unprecedented cyclonic force sustaining 185 mile per hour winds west of Naples, Okahumkee is all blue skies. The storm has pulled every little hundred gallon cloud over the peninsula into itself, growing ever stronger.
3:30 pm August 18th, 2021Eileen Court Okahumkee, FL
Hurricane Earl wasn’t really meant to be. The National Hurricane Center detected a disturbance about fifty miles east of The Keys a week ago. The Caribbean was so preternaturally warm that fish were dying in putrid droves. Discovering the disturbance baffled meteorologists and technicians at the NHC; why didn’t radar pick anything up until it was so close? Or had the low pressure system actually developed in the Caribbean? But before they could even analyze what the hell was happening, the disturbance fizzled out into an afternoon shower.
Then, two days later another disturbance just to the south of Florida. The NHC speculated it was a continuation. It was as if the storm retained a memory of itself before dispersing into the upper atmosphere, like it was hesitating to be so audacious. It intensified to category 3 in less than 24 hours. The storm traveled slowly, gathering power in the hot August gulf. Earl would be a cat 5 by the time it made landfall.
All the charismatic weather guys on local news channels who usually read sunny seven day forecasts with cheesy grins and affectations were suddenly the harbingers of death. They told those who stayed they’d be lucky to survive. It had been a long time since Florida’s Gulfcoast got a mandatory evacuation order, and about half of those in the red zone paid it no heed. Some were calling Earl the perfect storm, the teleporting hurricane, the Earl of Destruction. There was a general consensus that it would break the Saffir-Simpson scale and necessitate a sixth category.
Thing is, Okahumkee’s residents largely didn’t give a shit. The city of 10,000 was in the path of all but two spaghetti plots and though it looked like a ghost town (the evac was sort of enforced), people were home watching their fate inch closer on the Weather Channel or Bay News 9 or any nationally syndicated news broadcast. Everyone in America was waiting for the carnage, praying for Florida but also kind of hoping the state would be cleansed of its lunacy.
Lloyd Lassiter and Kirk Laramie were among the apathetic. Lloyd, about 14 tallboys deep, absently scrolled through his phone, secretly kindling a desire to get out of Dodge but knowing it was too late. Any path of egress would be jammed with traffic for dozens of miles. It wasn’t that he feared for his life or property, but it was increasingly clear that nobody was coming to the hurricane party. It was just him and the perpetually stoned Kirk, watching mindless reality television on the flatscreen in their dark, smoke-filled, shuddered up living room. What a great way to spend the day before meeting your maker.
“You wanna hit this?” Kirk asked, holding back a rattling cough.
“I’m good,” said Lloyd. “You want another burger? There’s like twenty left.”
“Man, I already had twelve. I could go for a beer though. You alright, dude? Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
“Pssh, not at all. Worst comes to worst, we can get out of here in the truck. I took her through that retention pond the other day down by Tillion Greens.”
Lloyd stood up to get some beers and a pounding at the door stopped him in his tracks. A voice from outside: “Guys! Fuck me up! Get me fucked up!” Goddamnit, thought Lloyd, of course Jim would show up. He wasn’t even invited—he never was in fact. Anywhere. Kirk probably posted about the party on Facebook again.
“He’s not gonna leave,” said Kirk, not breaking line of sight to the television.
“I guess not,” said Lloyd, and he opened the door.
Jim barged past Lloyd, shedding his backpack and retrieving something from his sock. It was evident by his sweaty white t-shirt he had pedaled here like he was trying to outrun the impending rain. Jim looked like he’d been up binging adderall and malt liquor for the past three days straight.
He held up whatever was in his sock. A single nugget of marijuana. “It’s Northern Lights. Saved it just for the party. But uh, where is everyone?”
Lloyd shrugged. “Who knows? Want a burger?”
“Fuck yeah.”
As long as Jim was fed and stoned, his obnoxiousness was halved. Lloyd put a burger in the microwave while Jim sat his corpulent ass next to Kirk and fired up the bong. In an unsettling sequence of events, the microwave dinged, The Real Housewives of Compton cut out, the TV blared a distorted tone hailing an emergency message (surely not a system test given the circumstances), and the first drops of rain started to fall.
6:50 pm August 18th, 2021Eileen Court Okahumkee, FL
The planter on the back porch Lloyd used as an ashtray was almost full. Hurricane Earl had diverted slightly from its expected course. Landfall was going to happen just five miles north of Okahumkee proper. Lloyd could see the highway, the infamous US-19 beyond the fence in his backyard. Normally it’d be bustling with diesel trucks and old sedans sans mufflers, but it was eerily quiet save for the occasional emergency vehicle, sirens blaring. Traffic lights blinked yellow. No one in their right mind would be out there two hours before the storm came to land. They’d be a hundred miles north evacuating towards Georgia or Jacksonville or any other place as northeast as possible.
Jim and Kirk were inside trying to resurrect an old karaoke machine. Probably moot since the power would almost certainly be out by sundown. Lloyd took a quick mental inventory. He had enough beer for a week at the rate they were drinking, ample bourbon as backup, and half a dozen 5 gallon water jugs in the garage. Nonperishable food items? If it came down to it, they’d be eating an all-bean diet, perhaps cooked over a butane torch and a couple candles.
Lloyd noted the Waffle House was still open across 19. He could’ve hit their front door with a full beer from where he stood. He’d been to that Waffle House in the middle of a tropical storm before. They were brazen. Part of what makes their food so good, he thought. In case of natural disaster, sit down and get yourself an All-Star Special. Even now, someone was getting out of a minivan and strolling in as if this was just a Florida afternoon shower.
Lloyd heard the sliding door behind him and Jim came out. His eyes were redder than Satan’s sack and he’d managed to stain half the surface area of his shirt with mustard and PBR.
“Hey man, lemme bum a smoke,” he said miming a lighter flick.
Lloyd rolled his eyes and handed him one.
“We can’t get the Karaoke thing hooked up,” he added.
“I’m not surprised. You two are too stoned to figure out how shoelaces work and I’m too drunk to care,” said Lloyd.
Then Jim noticed the open Waffle House in the hazy distance. “Dude. Is that for real? This thing can’t be that bad if they’re still over there slinging hash browns!”
“Waffle House stays open until a storm surpasses cat 4. They’re doing the lord’s work over there.”
“We should go!”
“Haven’t you eaten enough already?”
“Yeah, but I could really go for some fully loaded hashies. On me if you take us over.” Jim put out his cigarette and checked his wallet. The generosity wasn’t like him. He usually pretended to lose his wallet and Kirk or Lloyd would end up paying for whatever; drinks, smokes, and food.
Lloyd considered it. After all, the taste of coffee was enhanced threefold in weather like this. He inhaled deeply, taking in a mixture of petrichor and lingering tobacco smoke. The darkening sky held terrors miles high, churning ever faster. It wouldn’t be long.
Suddenly there was a deep fizzling sound above them, like thousands of bottles of tonic being opened at once. The hairs stood up on the back of Lloyd’s neck and a single bolt of lightning cracked the atmosphere over the Gulf. The bolt crawled through the clouds, as if in slow motion and hung there frozen. There was no thunder, just the sound of millions of angrily persistent volts.
“What the fuck?” Good, so Jim saw it too. I’m not losing it yet, thought Lloyd.
“That about sums it up.”
They yelled for Kirk to come out and look at the suspended lightning bolt, but it was gone by the time he got up. What property of electricity would cause such a thing? It was like a glitch, like something was breaking through this plane of reality. Lloyd felt a sense of dread he’d only ever read about, followed by the strongest craving for hash browns and coffee he’d ever had.
“Alright. You fuckers ready for some Waffle House?”
7:15 pm August 18th, 2021 🌀 Waffle House #57 Okahumkee, FL
The trio sat in a booth by a window so Lloyd could keep an eye on his truck. It’d take a serious squall for anything to happen to it, but who knew if a wayward branch would go flying through the windshield? The palms in the median of US-19 were straining against mounting winds, and still—someone was out there in a poncho pedaling a beleaguered bicycle upwind. A man resembling Captain Ahab sat at the counter making some contraption out of toothpicks and sipping decaf. The cooks were joking through the apprehension they wore on their faces.
“Hey, my name’s Trish. What can I get you boys?” Their waitress didn’t break her gaze from the tempestuous scene outside. All three of the lads ordered an All-Star Special.
“And how would you like your hashbrowns?”
“Load ‘em up! Make ‘em filthy as possible. Throw them on the floor if you have to,” Jim said. Trish looked at him like the idiot he was.
“Okay then. Just to let you know, the power might go out here soon. We have a backup generator, but our boss forgot to order gas. So if it cuts out, we’ll have to close up here.”
“Makes sense,” said Jim. “I’m surprised y’all are open right now anyway. I mean, I’m glad you are. Don’t get me wrong.”
Trish flashed a fake smile; as if to say “we wouldn’t have to be open if brazen morons like you guys didn’t show up to restaurants while a hurricane was making landfall.” But she pointed to a chart above the entrance. “Waffle House emergency guidelines. We stay open until it’s a cat 5 or the place catches on fire, or, you know, we lose power.”
“Told you,” said Lloyd.
Captain Ahab paid his bill and left. One of the cooks scoffed at the toothpick structure he’d left on the counter and swept it into a garbage bin. The trio watched him through the window struggling to deploy an umbrella. When he finally got it, the umbrella immediately inverted as a gust of wind shook the building. He tossed it aside and got into an old Camry. Where would he go? US-19 was already flooding. Only the most robust of vehicles with excessive lifts and oversized tires would be able to traverse it now.
8:10 pm August 18th, 2021 🌀 Waffle House #57 Okahumkee, FL
“Guess we’d better head back,” said Kirk, noting how dark it had gotten since they’d arrived. He’d planned to ride this thing out from the beginning. Him and Lloyd always had. Ride together, die together. Besides, the pot was wearing off and he intended to smoke enough to sleep through the storm. But before Trish could come collect her tip, the lights flickered. Once, twice, and then they were out for good. Something beeped loudly from the kitchen. Lloyd could make out the silhouette of a cook throwing off his apron and heading toward the door. Trish ran over to their table.
“Alright boys. Thanks for coming in I guess. That’s it for tonight.” She groped for the cash on the table in the dark, nervously dropping the stack of quarters Jim had so kindly paid with. A yellow emergency light pulsed at a gas station across 19, illuminating the night in two-second intervals. In one of those intervals, Lloyd saw something that nearly loosened his bowels of the fully-loaded hash browns he’d enjoyed like a last meal on death row. But, it couldn’t be, could it? They were loud, like the cacophony of a hundred freight trains—so he’d read. It was eerily quiet but for the rain. Then a burst of violet lightning confirmed the worst, revealing nature’s most angry of outbursts. Oh yes. A wicked funnel loomed 300 yards away. This was no merry waterspout disrupting a school of Snapper. This thing had teeth.
Jim and Kirk finally noticed what Lloyd was looking at, and Jim really did crap his pants.
“Ah, shit,” said Trish, defeated.
There was another factoid Lloyd remembered about tornadoes. If they looked like they were standing still, they were coming towards you.
“Shit is right,” he said. “Hey Trish, does this place have a walk-in cooler?”
“No, honey. This ain’t a Denny’s.”
“Well then, we may be truly fucked. Let’s get behind the counter.”
“What about your truck?” asked Kirk.
“It’s gone. Even the Behemoth would be tossed in the air like a Hotwheels car by that thing.”
Now the building rattled. Now they could hear it; a high-pitched howl at first like wind caught in a chimney, and then the low ominous rumbling of a pissed-off god. The four of them got behind the counter, huddling on greasy tile. Lloyd peeked over one more time. The street lights along 19 had all gone out. Flashes of lightning lit up the twister with a horrifying strobe effect. It was right across the highway chewing up the neighborhood. Lloyd’s neighborhood. Gertie’s neighborhood. The place he’d lived nearly his whole life gone in half a minute. He crouched back down, took out a pack of cigarettes and passed it around.
Jim and Trish shrieked as a window shattered. The howling wind was so loud now Lloyd covered his ears. It felt like all the blood in his body had rushed to the sides of his head in a deafening whirl. Ceiling tiles were shaken loose and falling to the floor around them. The aluminum in the roof started squealing horrifically as pressure built rapidly inside. Nature doled out particularly harsh fury on Waffle House #57. It was foolish to regret not evacuating now, but it was all Lloyd could think about. He had defied the insurmountable power of the tropics and he would die here on this dirty diner floor.
Bolts holding the roof on gave out with several loud pops and the Waffle House was suddenly open to the tumultuous sky. Its inhabitants were drenched instantly. Anything not affixed to the floor was thrown high into the air and the rest of the windows exploded. Lloyd balled himself up as tightly as possible with his arms over his head. He felt Kirk and Trish shaking next to him, crouched in the same futile position. It’s what they taught in elementary school during severe weather drills. Get in the hall. Cover your head. Back to the sky. Lloyd remembered those drills feeling claustrophobic and nerve-racking. They’d never actually prepare someone for a real tornado.
Usually tornadoes lasted a few minutes—maybe 15 at most. The worst was over in seconds. This one, of course, was merely a byproduct of a much larger cyclone. An appetizer if you will. So, even if they survived in this utterly devastated restaurant, the worst was yet to come. Lloyd didn’t get a chance to ruminate much more on that subject. His mind raced with too much panic to think clearly anyway. Something metal and heavy careened out of the twister as it retracted back into the hurricane and hit Lloyd in the small of his back. Phosphenes erupted behind his eyelids. A second later, he blacked out from the pain.
6:42 am August 19th, 2021Somewhere Okahumkee, FL
A Coast Guard helicopter flies low over rivulets of filthy flood water and sprawling debris. This is Okahumkee. At least it was yesterday. Storm surge and cosmic winds rendered the little coastal city tragically unrecognizable. The helicopter makes its way up and down a three mile stretch of a highway underwater in widening arcs. US-19 could pass as a canal.
A petty officer sees movement through his binoculars and tells the pilot to get lower. He can’t believe his eyes. It’s an old lady floating in an inflatable kiddie pool using a Monet painting as an oar. She waves at the helicopter with all the enthusiasm she can muster. They lower a rope ladder and bring her aboard.
She’s handed a chilled bottle of water and chugs it like a college freshman. Her glasses are broken and blotches of blood are coagulated in her hair.
“Hey! Go up this way a bit further,” Gertie tells the officers, shouting over the din of the rotors. “I saw a man on a table. I couldn’t paddle to him to see if he was alive—couldn’t bring myself to see that—but I think he might be my neighbor. He was floating towards the treetops.”
The pilot does as Gertie tells, and sure enough, there’s a man on a floating grey table near a clump of oak trees. Miraculously, a napkin dispenser and salt shaker are on the table as well. It’s a Waffle House booth table. The man certainly looks dead. His shirt is tattered and blood-stained, and his right leg is at an unnatural angle. But he stirs as the helicopter flies directly over him. He turns his head with labored effort.
“It is him! It’s Lloyd! Oh, he’s gonna hear it from me. The wood he put over my windows blew off the second the storm started!”
submitted by DrewbitTaylor to shortstories

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