It all started out innocently enough. Girl (that would be me) meets social media (in this case, Facebook), posts profile, provides
as little info as necessary, downloads some nicely retouched photos, acquires some friends, comments on a couple of items that make her giggle and then goes about her life. Every so often, she (still me) logs in to wish a happy birthday to every person she has never met someone whose voice she would recognize and on the odd occasion, updates her status with cryptic messages that verify she’s still vaguely interested in all this crap breathing.
Then all hell breaks loose.
People start “tagging” me. Whether it be by photo or out of curiosity, I am asked to answer questions about my taste in music, reading habits, dental hygiene or what recipe I most resemble (whatever it is, it’s hot, sweet and spicy, but thoroughly an acquired taste). People tell me what the tarot has in store for them, offer minute by minute, detailed updates about their rectal exams, beg me for imaginary shoes or tools or god knows what garbage they need for games like Farmville.
I’m disturbed by the fact that Facebook is now starting to look like it’s a full time job for
too many some people. It makes me wonder if they are gainfully employed or if their employers unknowingly pay them to waste this much time talking about every little detail of their lives while they talk about four weddings and the funeral they will be attending.
Frankly, it scares me. And honestly, it’s not that interesting.
I receive invitations to events that are nowhere near my time zone and email messages imploring me to “like” or “join” or “share”. Suddenly, I find myself feeling like I’m in playschool and big old Barney is going to come traipsing into my cyber life. “I love you, you love me” puke.
If I’m going to get tagged or poked, please let me feel it. And please let it be by someone who is
actually there a really good kisser.
I am not cut out for such things.
I blame James Cameron and Leonardo DiCaprio for turning everyone into the king of their own world, if only in their imagination. While flying the other day, I was fully prepared for passengers to begin verbally “updating” their statuses because they are so addicted to over sharing and need to stay connected with everyone every single second of the day. A two-minute verbal Faceairplane feed might look something like this:
Sue D is going to the bathroom.
Ralph Jablonsky likes this.
Max Stein is now friends with 34D.
32A does NOT like this.
Joyce Q and Wyatt Arp have joined the Mile High Club.
Captain Smilovitz was tagged in a photo that was taken by the TSA.
Is this what we are?
I now have almost 350 “friends” on Facebook. I can honestly say I haven’t conversed with or met more than half of them. I wouldn’t recognize them in a police line-up or out in public without their names clearly written underneath their photos. If only it would fit onto a bumper sticker, I might devise one that reads, “Friends Don’t Let Friends Share on Facebook.”
It’s absolute madness.
If somebody could please explain why I want to roll out a long personal carpet throughout the course of a day and share intimate details about my life or read about a complete stranger’s sleeping habits, mean boss, kid’s latest trophy
awarded for waking up and breathing or dog’s irritable bowel syndrome, I’d appreciate it.
My new year’s resolution is to do a complete about Facebook. I’m halfway there.
Because frankly, I have more important things to do.
Like write my life story on Twitter.
You can follow me if you want, but thankfully, you can’t tag me.
Unless you’re a really good kisser.