Yesterday a writer friend sent me a Facebook message to say, I’m leaving The Facebook!  He left a new email address, scrawled out his cell phone number, and escaped.

I think about this just about every day often, which is to say I think hard about leaving “The Facebook.”

How many times do log in as if I’m checking off a to-do-list item?  The newsfeed pops up and I spend precious minutes scrolling through while wondering why I’m spending precious minutes scrolling through and think:  J’m ‘en fous!  God knows I could have spent those minutes brushing up on my long lost French.

Then I come back the next day, like a smoker who needs that first morning hit from a fresh Marlboro Light, and log right in and take another fucking drag.

This morning I followed my friend to the door and cracked it open.  Some low light filtered in.  I stripped down my Facebook page down to the bare nothings:  no photos, no profile, no info, no posts.  It felt good to disappear a little at a time.  I didn’t leave altogether, there’s still a shadow of the me who used to be there — a literal shadow where my profile picture used to be — but even as I logged out I wondered who The Facebook Me really is.  Or was.

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