Before we proceed, let it be known that my mother and sister intermittently read this blog so this should serve as an explanation to them.
I hate Facebook. Absolutely despise it and everything it represents. But I am exceedingly terrible at communication and it's the only place I get to catch up with the people I tangentially know/knew. That person I hung out with at the last place I worked whom I'm not really friends with but helped me survive a nightmarish spiral of boredom and institutionalized torture? I'm not going to call that person, but I'm still curious what he/she is up to and will send the occasional message to say "hi."
Other people use it as a dumping ground for their daily minutia. Which used to bother me, but after what I did, I came to the realization, who cares? I'm the one scrolling past it. I don't have to read it. So what if they post mind numbing pseudo-inspirational quotes from Bridget Jones's Diary or
constant updates on their Words With Friends prowess? I--we--can scroll past it.
I also unfriended their spouses just to make certain all ties were severed (but it's not like their spouses used Facebook anyway, it was just another arm of information gathering).
I love you, Mom, and Sister, I've learned to tolerate your continued existence, but Facebook was making me hate you.
This simple action, a few clicks of a mouse--Who am I kidding, I was drunk, it was on my phone and took multiple attempts, during which I may have accidentally sent a nude pic to the Dalai Lama (Which, if you got it Dalai, s'up? Lemme see your dangle. C'mon, lift that tunic, big guy. I'll help you reach enlightenment.)--it gave me a rush. Which is beyond dumb. Who cares about Facebook? Who puts social import on things like relationship statuses and limited profiles? Teenagers and the mentally ill (is that redundant?), that's who.
I update my status probably once every five months. But whenever I do, I can count on some judgmental remark from my family. It causes me anxiety whenever I hit the post button. It was like having an ex ride in the backseat of every first date.
Maybe I should just dump Facebook, but I genuinely do care about those old friends from old cities who I don't get to talk to anymore because I'm phone-o-phobic. But to be fair, who the hell wants a phone call from the person you used to work with five years ago? That sounds like one of the labours of Hercules. "And ye must endure an awkward conversation with the person who threw out your lunch five years ago because you didn't write your name and the date on the bag."
So this was my zen Buddhist attempt at clearing my head of negative thoughts and influences. I hope you understand, Mom. Also, Dalai, hey Dalai, you get my text? Why no response, baby? I can trim, is that the problem? Lemme get all up in that Dharma.