This is a true story.
I HATE Facebook. Four months ago I deleted myself – Poof! Gone. I felt liberated from the diving platforms of opinions and the parallel bars of never intersecting lives. I felt like a montgolfier looking down – yes DOWN – at the mess below, saying so-long, suckers.
Then I signed up for an on-line writing class. Wouldntya know, the discussion group is on Facebook. aaaRGH! I created a fake me, presented myself to the moderator of the group who promptly denied access because it wasn’t the same name I used to sign up for the course. D’uh. An elephantine cloud of profanity formed in the dining room, home of the family computer, which rained down F – U – C – K’s on innocent bystanders (resulting in this linguistic collateral damage: “If you’re allowed to say that, so am I.” said the 20 year old.) I logged out, my fingers smashing the keys like a jackhammer. The dining room emptied.
I had a cup of chamomile tea with a Jameson’s chaser and tried to log back in to explain myself to the moderator. Password? PASSWORD? No, I couldn’t remember it even though it had been less than an hour since I was born again. Facebook locked me out, demanding I present a piece of government issued ID with my (fake) name and they’d give me entry, as though Facebook was Ali Baba’s cave full of glittering boodle. The profanity cumulonimbus opened again.
Lesson learned? Be true. If I re-enter that world, I must be me. And so, my dear 8, or maybe 10, readers, this is who I am – The Artist Formerly Known as Menomama3 (thanks Harmonious Stew for that moniker), aka Susanne Fletcher.
Wouldn’t you agree this was a fabular experience?
(PS: Thanks also to the mysterious soul who shared this blog on Facebook. Suddenly my stats of 4 daily views doubled. That was nice.Facebook’s light side.)