I’ve loved to hate Facebook since I registered over 10 years ago.
“Kara! You have to sign up for Facebook! It’s like an extra large burrito smothered in awesome sauce!”
Shit, I love burritos, so I signed up. Yech, way to oversell. Soon, everyone and their grandma had Facebook. No, I don’t want to be friends with my high school American literature teacher. No, I don’t want to be friends with the happy hooker tow truck service. No, Dad! I will not be your friend!
It’s an introvert’s worst nightmare. New friend request! Oh, you want to be my friend? How about you send me some cookies and prove I’m as worthy as the other 666 people you’ve friended. I have 100-some “friends”, with a half dozen of them being people I’d actually choose to talk to without having my fingers smashed with a hammer. After which, sorrycan’ttypefingerscrushed.
I keep it for those few weirdos whom I call friend. Sometimes I communicate with family. And rarely will I post something. Pictures, beer worship, and blurbs that no human in their right mind will understand.
Today when I logged into Facebook, it asked if I wanted to share a memory from last year. Because Facebook cares. The memory?
Nice. Thanks for reminding me what an epic klutz I am.