I wonder if anyone will stop by my blog after finding my Facebook dead and gone.
If so, hello. Please know that I have not killed myself or been committed, nor has any other tragedy befallen me.
It never seemed possible, but I actually got fed up enough with Facebook to deactivate my account.
Not permanently delete — I actually might need to be committed if I got rid of five years' worth of photos, connections and "capital-F friendship," as the Knight calls it.
I was fed up with the privacy issues and breaches of trust on Facebook's part.
I think Mark Zuckerberg is a slimeball.
I was fed up with friends who mass broadcast their tragicomic life events and let their drama unfold in public comment after public comment — but can't be bothered to respond to the genuine concerns of a friend in a private message.
I was fed up with the data-mining apps, the Farmville, the Mafia Wars, the "book clubs," the friend surveys that I filled out on my LiveJournal long before I got a Facebook account.
I was fed up with people assuming they knew me inside and out, fed up with my complex emotions being boiled down to simple generalizations by Friends with the attention span of a flea. Ten status messages a day does not a life's story make. (Unless you're one of those mass-broadcast Friends, I guess.)
And, most importantly, I was fed up with my own obsessive monitoring, lack of real communication and total inability to focus on the rest of my life. Facebook has turned me into a scatterbrained idiot.
Yes, I'm still alive. But I'm not living my life on Facebook anymore. For the time being.
Look, this was taken yesterday:
Serene. Outdoors. Wearing impossibly large hoop earrings. That's me. Stepping back from my white-text-box life to enjoy the sunshine and in-the-flesh company of my Knight in Shining Camry. We just celebrated our first anniversary, and I'm happy to say I marked the date with kisses and a trip to the Garfield Park Conservatory — and not a sweet status message.