Prompt Images
Type f into the browser bar, then arrow key down once and hit enter.
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Roll my eyes at post misspellings.
Roll my eyes at the new-mom-syndrome of posting a photo every day of a baby’s ugly alien face turning slightly more human.
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Read about someone’s positive life moment. Click “Like,” out of some nagging obligation. Know secretly that I don’t like it. Know that the secret is mine. It gives me power.
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Find no value in a person whatsoever, perhaps owing to (A) his position statement on gun control or Black Lives Matter; or (B) the prevalence of inspirational quotes on high saturated photo backgrounds or her unsubstantiated opinions on vaccines.
Click Unfollow. Quietly seethe, then pat myself on the back for maintaining my moral high ground against well-meaning former acquaintances I haven’t seen in a decade. Good for me. I am bastion of integrity and honor.
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Read a Washington Post article that someone I think is smart posted. Smile because I’m smart too.
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Find a post from someone who I find physically attractive. Probably a high school crush who still lives in New Jersey.
Click to his profile and find out who he’s dating, and if she’s attractive. (She is.) Assume I’m a much more charming conversationalist and/or that she has low self-esteem.
Click back to Newsfeed.
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Become hypnotized as a video plays, disembodied hands silently preparing an unhealthy recipe, covered in melted cheese and/or chocolate. Enjoy it immensely, but not enough to click “Like” or prepare the tasty treat.
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Realize this is my life now.
Recoil in horror and X-out of the tab with a vengeance, swearing to be better.
You guys. What even is Facebook? Who am I when I’m on it? Why am I even on it? Isn’t it fucking gross? Isn’t it worse than everything?
Maybe you don’t think so. Maybe you like it and can control yourself. Maybe you like baby photos and rants about traffic/baristas/poor customer service experiences. Maybe it’s important for you to know that Dominic Chu is feeling loved with Margaret Sweetwater at the Westminster Dog Show.
Maybe you care about National Sibling Day or National Donut Day or National Existentialist Crisis Day. But I don’t. I can’t. I don’t have the energy.
And yet, here I am, scrolling through my newsfeed for the, I don’t know, 12th time today?
And this, unfortunately, is not an anomaly. Every single day, I cast judgment on my friends, learning to hate everything about their bullshit curated fantasy lives.
These are the same people who make me laugh until I cry/pee/hiccup. The same people who traipse all over creation to watch me run marathons and ultramarathons. The same people who read this piece, and every other piece I’ve ever written, because they like me in real life, where you don’t have to click buttons to indicate your opinion. These are my real friends. But on Facebook, I’ve actually come to resent them.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Unfortunately, I can’t claim ignorance. I already know Facebook turns me into a self-loathing troll warden. It’s my own fault for feeding the beast constantly, like it’s some benevolent people-connector and not just a festering, growing tumor of data. Checking Facebook has become this heinous voyeuristic compulsion that makes me worse in every imaginable way.
I can’t tell you how much Kelaine Conochan is feeling disgusted with herself. Acting so self-righteous, as if this digitally constructed personality is not the just a dishonest monster posting adventurous, beautiful vacation photos and athletic accomplishments. As if she’s not begging for attention with every overanalyzed, overthought, overplanned post or link she shares.
I desperately wish I could jump off the back of this emotional dump truck. I wish I could stop careering at full speed into a trash heap of narcissistic, destructive self-loathing.
I wish we could go back to being friends in real life. I wish we took the time to see and hear each other in person. Where our lives are imperfect and complicated. Where our conversations can be nuanced and last all night. Where I can tell you I like you, without having to click a button.
I wish I could stop. I wish I could change. I wish it never existed.
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