Dear Facebook: I See What You Did There

For two complete years, I've threatened to start another blog; for no other reasons than to respark my dwindling creativity, jump start my new manuscript, and regain some discipline. I even registered a few blogs, complete with cutesy titles and introductory entries, only to lose/forget the passwords or domain names; and then blithely drop the whole idea.  

I continued to journal of course, to cope and maintain my sanity; and for fear of losing the ability to write longhand permanently. I started using the phrase "in between projects," convincing myself that I would mini-flex my writing muscles daily - by posting on Facebook. 

Turns out, Facebook is a dangerous place. A slippery slope for writers; particularly unfocused and self-deluded ones.  The fantastic and troubling thing is, you can publish yourself instantly. Constantly. Exhaustingly. It's the crack cocaine of the net.

Starts like this: you post excerpts and ideas for that hot manuscript, then maybe a few inspirational quotes. You express your eternal awe for Rilke and Plath. You even dare to upload a photo (or 500) of yourself, doing...stuff. Activities. At the grocery store, in the pub. You then become a brazen individual who informs everyone when you last ate/slept/shat. One day you glance over at that stupid timeline, and witness the accumulation of trite bullshit in which you willingly engaged (celebrity gossip, the quiz defining your kissing style, a beautifully Instagrammed picture of the 405 freeway at dusk) and you wonder what you've really been doing with your life. 

And how bizarre is it that Facebook makes me ponder my own mortality?  Perhaps I die tomorrow, and my last Facebook post turns out to be uninspiring and prosaic, like "my deodorant is failing me?"  A status update can easily become your famous last words. Don't get me started about death and Facebook. We've all heard of, or had a friend who died - yet their Facebook page remains as some kind of luminous memorial. You expire, but your Facebook page won't. People continue to drop in, rifle through your photos, re-read all your hopes and dreams never realized, make comments, write on your wall, all without your fucking permission.

Or let's say you commit some uncool crime, and the media and detectives scour your page, sift through your alter egos and mindless ramblings to figure out where you fall in the DSM.

These thoughts horrify me.

I get it. We need a way to pass time while stuffed away in an office, or waiting to board some plane. But why do we still clamor to it on weekends? During "free" time? Do we need constant reassurance that our life means something? And the measuring stick is our photo albums and status updates?

Facebook celebrates the mundane; the minutia of daily life. It traps both simple minds and free thinkers. It has useful purposes, of course. Yet it also breeds an eerie, acceptable form of narcissism.

I won't even get into the godlessness that is Twitter.

Yes, I see what you did there, Facebook. Always feigning interest, with the How are you feeling? or What's going on with you? prompts at the top of my page. You don't give a shit about my wants and needs - but your advertisers do. And the fact that you're the brainchild of this brilliantly akward dude who didn't possess enough swag to meet chicks in real life - kinda makes it even more lame.

So here's what: I'm ditching my own lame factor. Branching out. Dabbling into new, groovy on and offline things.

Meanwhile, guess I"ll take a wild, girlish fling at writing.

Again.