I have done it twelve times, quit Facebook I mean.  Just like you.  And just like you I am tired of people blogging about why they quit. 

All the usual reasons.  It was turning into an obsession.  I was neglecting my marriage. Had stopped feeding the cat, who ran away with the vet student who was vacating the downstairs apartment. My lip trembled when there were no gift alerts.  I sat in a chair staring straight ahead for an hour when I discovered that absolutely no one from my past, present, or immediate family is looking for me.  The last straw was when the worst student I ever taught was "Smarter than Joseph Hoffmann."

This time it's for real. I am playing for keeps. I will not be tricked into reactivating my moribund account by album pictures of all the cuties who will miss me. (They made the mistake of randomselecting my daughter's photo. Flash: Daughters do not miss fathers; they call for money). Keep those World Hunger Day images to yourself. After twelve times, they don't work anymore.  Do you think I'm stupid?

It begins with little things, doesn't it?  Two years ago I was in collecting mode.  A hundred friends wasn't enough, even though I didn't know a hundred people by name.  By accepting invitations of friends  of friends I pushed the envleope to two hundred.  Drop in the bucket, I thought; I can easily do three. I was almost there, by including people whose surnames began with three consonants. I had almost roped every Zbgrewsji in Latvia, though many Americans have americanized it as Zebrowski.

I liked everything that was on anybody's mind, no matter how imbecilic ("Marianne is bored."  312 people like this.  See all 182 comments),  and everything I wrote and posted was liked back ("Some people think Nietzsche is a dichotomist, but not me."  You and seven other people like this.) Those were great days. If the chain extended to fifteen comments or that cute little blue thumb was up more than a dozen times, my day was made.  If not, the dog didn't get fed.   It's good to have benchmarks.

But then people stopped liking me.  Just like in high school.  Friends of friends poached friends of friends of mine and liked them better.  Whole conversations about what was supposed to be on my mind turned in weird directions, like  who of your high school teachers reminds you most of Professor Snape? Or exchanging recipes for Chicken Piccata. (Incidentally, the trick seems to be adding a little cinnamon to the lemon and wine marinade.)  Anyway, I was fading fast. Some days I wondered whether all of my friends had messaged each other not to like anything I posted ever again, and just talk to each other instead.  In fact, I still wonder about that.

 And then I realized, there is almost never anything on my mind that I want to share with friends of friends.  I used to talk to the cat, but that's no good anymore.  I've spent my whole life not answering telephones, and now all of a sudden I should care what someone named Zbgrewsji thinks about where I'm going on vacation?  Not to Latvia, that's for sure. 

And to all of you who ignored my Youtube link to savour the delights of Django Reinhardt's Nuages on guitar,  I hope you die friendless.  No wait, I hope you die thinking you're friendless but it turns out that site-maintenance has slowed down delivery of 489 new messages and friend requests. 

Sweet.