The Facehugger of Social Media

Let’s speak the truth, shall we?
I’ll start.
I’m not actually glad that I have Facebook.
I don’t really like Facebook… I like the connection to the friends who ruined everything by not listening to me and moved out of state… I like the groups that I’m involved in… and that’s about it.
Facebook itself is merely the twitchy, invasive, borderline abusive conduit that allows me to discover what my absent friends are eating these days.
I’ll just tell some of you: your food is gross.
You ate much better food when I was around.

More and more, I’m weighing the pros and cons of keeping Facebook.
In all honesty, if Facebook was a person, I would have severed all ties and filed multiple orders of protection ages ago. Facebook is that creep who starts following you to restaurants, peeking over your shoulder, and tagging your companions as if they were beasts in the wild, keeps asking for your phone number, sets up a new email account for you, and desperately seems to want you to play games with strangers.

You Want to Read My Text Messages?
Sure, they’ve stated that this is for “two party authentication”, but that doesn’t make me any happier.
Why?
Because it smells like just another sneaky attempt to peek into my medicine cabinet or closet or something. I’m sitting here like a dummy, assuming that there’s a line, and the next thing I know, the Facebook PTB are curled up in my lap, wearing my clothes, and eating my Rice-A-Roni.
What’s next?
Is Facebook going to integrate itself into my car? Adjust my thermostat? Tuck me in at night?
I mean, you give Facebook an inch, and suddenly they’re insisting that they really NEED to spontaneously and without warning access your web cam for good, wholesome reasons.
You know… just to check on you.
Make sure you’re safe.
Everything they do is for you, baby.

Why All The Questions?
I get interrogated by Facebook on a daily basis and, no, I am not exaggerating. Every day, Facebook annoys me with questions about when I started here and when I left there, and where I have traveled, and how I feel about sports. Facebook seems to think that this information is absolutely vital to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, when in reality, not a single soul cares when I left my fourth job.
If you do happen to care, then I have two words for you: Back off. Nobody asked you to breathe down my neck.

HOW DID I GET HERE?
Facebook, in it’s infinite wisdom, knows that you would never be brave enough to join a group on your own… so it benevolently makes it possible for completely random people to include you in a community without your consent.
It’s a bit like being chloroformed and waking up at your neighbor’s Fourth of July picnic.
Sure, you didn’t receive an invitation, didn’t want to go, and sure as shootin’ don’t want to be there now, but making your own decisions about things has only fostered a sort-of indelicate independence and we will break you of that, child.
Of course, you can exit the group… you can try to skulk out of the aforementioned picnic, hoping no one notices, and deeply resenting the fact that you have to wriggle out of a crowded backyard that you wouldn’t even BE in if you hadn’t been kidnapped in the first place

Stay Away From My Friends
I don’t particularly think my friends need to know that I binge watched multiple documentaries on Egyptian mythology.
If I had a reason for wanting my friends to know that, I would tell them.
I would tell them. I don’t need some third party busting in on my binge watching and broadcasting it to the world. I don’t need my friends knowing when I’ve worked out and how much and how much weight I’ve lost, and whether or not I exceeded my calorie allotment for the day because there were egg rolls.
Just kidding.
I never exceed my calorie allotment… because I don’t allot calories.
I am like the wind.
I am fire.
I am death.
I don’t need Facebook making friends with all of my apps and websites and then convincing them that I need to “share” more.

When I meet a new person, I like to think that there’s a wall… a nice, big, lovely, protective wall.
I can speak over the wall, get to know the person on the other side, and gradually decide if bricks will be removed.
I have control of my lovely wall, and people who jump over the wall are removed from the premises.
There.
We all understand the metaphor, yes?
Facebook’s purpose, however, is to remove the wall. Once I accept a friend request, Facebook assumes that I want this person to know ALL of my business, and if I don’t want them to know ALL of my business, I can add them to a special restricted group.
That feels backward to me, and I have to be more and more vigilant about who has access to what part of my personal life which is PERSONAL. As much as I enjoy community, I also greatly enjoy the ability to only tell the stories that I want to tell. I don’t consider the minutiae of my life to be state secrets, but start trying to pry, and I’ll lock this thing up tighter than Fort Knox.

I’m keeping Facebook… as I mentioned, I enjoy the contact that I have with some friends, but… I am getting rather tired of feeling pressed.

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6 thoughts on “The Facehugger of Social Media

  1. Holy Moses. It’s like we share a brain. I almost could have written this. It’s like Facebook interfaced our brains WITHOUT OUR CONSENT. And not without irony, I feel compelled to share this on Facebook.

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    1. It’s a never-ending cycle!! I like to imagine that Mark Zuckerberg is just absorbing all of our information, like the Riddler in “Batman Forever.”
      But thanks for the share!

      Like

    1. If Facebook had privacy levels, or the ability to be invisible, it really would be lovely, because then I could interact with precisely who I wanted and how I wanted without worry.

      Like

  2. I left Facebook two years ago, and haven’t missed a thing. Only thing missed was someone who dislikes me apparently running me down; what is concocted there I don’t need to know. It’s very liberating not having to be concerned that someone else’s washing machine broke down, or that their two year old wet their pants at eleven minutes past seven.

    Like

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