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I REMEMBER the first time I heard of Facebook. It was about a dozen years ago, when my son complained that a distant relative of my husband was “Facebook-stalking the shit out of me.” His remark made me laugh, even though I didn’t quite understand it. Now I do, since I do it myself from time to time.
Yes, I admit it: I look up people on Facebook that I want nothing to do with in real life. They are people I once knew and have long since abandoned. That sounds cruel, but it’s simply what happened. I check them out to see if perhaps they’ve changed. Was I wrong about them? Was I too hasty? (So far, not.)
Some people set up Facebook accounts but never go there. Their last post was like May 2011 or September 2016. Or never, they just have the page but no photos, no friends, no nothing. I give them credit for wanting to be counted.
Then there are the no-shows. I wish I were one of them but it’s too late for that, I have like six Facebook accounts under slightly different names and for different reasons. But the people who are not on Facebook and never were—now those are some interesting people. You wonder: What gives? Are they wanted by the police? International spies? Or just too damn snooty to hobnob with the masses? Anyway, they’re mysterious, a good quality if you ask me.
Finally there are the Dead. I hate their pages. One of my oldest and closest friends died last September and every so often he shows up in that stupid parade of People You Might Know or People We Think You Would Like, whatever it’s called, and it always bums me out. Another one who committed suicide several years ago is still alive on Facebook, with people stopping by to say happy birthday every year. She would hate that. I mean, don’t you think, considering?
—Andrea Rouda
Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
