What’s the worst that could happen?
I became a member of MySpace because that is where my nieces and nephews were and then everything migrated to Facebook and I went there. But I became increasingly annoyed at having to constantly log on to Facebook to answer emails that people sent me to my Facebook account that would come to my email account. I kept thinking WASTE OF FUCKING TIME. And then I just decided to quit railing against it because people who don’t have blogs who wanted to touch other people in their circle with info – like hey I rode my bike today, or hey, did you hear this great song – were sending me notes and they were basically having the same conversations with me that I used to have when I would run into someone at the K&B, when the K&B actually still existed, it’s now a Rite Aid or Walgreens – but the point is that these were drive by conversations with those people we know that we don’t speak to as often as we’d like because life intervenes but now they have this access, or this new backyard fence they can speak to you from, and your granting them access is totally controllable by you but if you are someone like me who cannot stand to have anything pending you are constantly responding and responding and responding and suddenly you realize you didn’t have time for your bath, walking the dog, or the skin care treatment you promised your face because you’ve been on Facebook trying to respond to everyone who decided they had a tidbit to share with you today.
What to do?
Unclear.
Perhaps not respond, not sign on to Facebook from hotel rooms where you have forgotten your password and the sheer fact that now you cannot respond to an acquaintance who sent you a brief summary of their walk in the park and you cannot post things like MY MOTHER IS DYING THEREFORE I CANNOT DEAL is inappropriate and causes others to have to read something that makes them not feel so good. All of this is a big no no.
So you leave off of Facebook where you can’t sign in and wonder if you should access your Twitter account wherein you’d still be leaving some banal message that would not be conveying anything because you have walked down the street with your partner and had a delicious dinner in Nancy Oake’s Boulevard and now you are trying with all your might to not talk about the day where your mother dying has been the front and center of your thoughts – not “in the back of your mind” as someone referred to it earlier – but the everything you are thinking about when you walk into the bathroom alone at last and can pee and think and reflect in peace and think – good god, my mother who I love and have been consumed by all my life because I wanted to fix her problems is dying.
And then you are in the lobby of the Harbor Court and you are printing out your ticket home and in the background the other guest has switched the television from the ballgame to some ranting fucking lunatic who is saying I WANT MY FATHER TO LIVE and I WANT A GOVERNMENT WHO IS PAYING TO KEEP MY FATHER ALIVE and I shout FUCK YOU! and Tatjana says, “Shhhhh.” And then the ticket home, to New Orleans, spits out of the printer suddenly.
If I cannot sign onto Facebook would anyone die?