Murder, my friends. Cold-blooded, premeditated, and carried out with relish. It's true, my lovelies. I am considering the imminent demise, at my own fair hands, of my Facebook account.
I'll make no pretenses here, for what would it serve me to pretend I had any real feelings of warmth left for that gossiping, flagrantly indelicate bore? How often must I listen to that hussy telling me that someone else has broken up/had a child/gained a few pounds/planted a row of beans in an entirely fictitious garden somewhere in "Farmville." Honestly, why is any of that my business? Oh, and the way that bore of a social-interloper has of bringing up people from my past, about whom I have not thought in years, with the idea that somehow we ought to be friends now, and share such intimate details as how glad we are that it is the weekend! My dears, it is rapidly approaching my limit of social grace.
And yet I have let the relationship linger, on life support as it were. Thinking that perhaps this nosy little twerp who keeps poking me (unprovoked! I swear!), was somehow worth the trouble. Because, of course every so often the little blabbermouth comes out with something funny, some mild unprepossessing status update that I can truly enjoy. Heaven knows, these rare outbursts of usefulness are quickly smothered among the mundane, pointless, and (most annoying of all) pointedly coded status updates that serve no useful purpose to anyone, as only the author cares about the subject or even, in the latter case, understands the references. Ambiguity is fine, when used to good purpose. Ambiguity for ambiguity's sake, or merely for attention, smacks of conceit.
And so we come, mes amis, to the crux of the matter. Dare I go forth, flouting social expectations and modern conveniences of communication, bravely marching into the unknown of limited online social interaction, and stab that publicly indecent, gossipmongering voyeur right through the heart? Or will this be another empty threat levied against the strange privacy-free virtuosity that has become our social world?
I cannot say, my dears. I cannot say.
I'll make no pretenses here, for what would it serve me to pretend I had any real feelings of warmth left for that gossiping, flagrantly indelicate bore? How often must I listen to that hussy telling me that someone else has broken up/had a child/gained a few pounds/planted a row of beans in an entirely fictitious garden somewhere in "Farmville." Honestly, why is any of that my business? Oh, and the way that bore of a social-interloper has of bringing up people from my past, about whom I have not thought in years, with the idea that somehow we ought to be friends now, and share such intimate details as how glad we are that it is the weekend! My dears, it is rapidly approaching my limit of social grace.
And yet I have let the relationship linger, on life support as it were. Thinking that perhaps this nosy little twerp who keeps poking me (unprovoked! I swear!), was somehow worth the trouble. Because, of course every so often the little blabbermouth comes out with something funny, some mild unprepossessing status update that I can truly enjoy. Heaven knows, these rare outbursts of usefulness are quickly smothered among the mundane, pointless, and (most annoying of all) pointedly coded status updates that serve no useful purpose to anyone, as only the author cares about the subject or even, in the latter case, understands the references. Ambiguity is fine, when used to good purpose. Ambiguity for ambiguity's sake, or merely for attention, smacks of conceit.
And so we come, mes amis, to the crux of the matter. Dare I go forth, flouting social expectations and modern conveniences of communication, bravely marching into the unknown of limited online social interaction, and stab that publicly indecent, gossipmongering voyeur right through the heart? Or will this be another empty threat levied against the strange privacy-free virtuosity that has become our social world?
I cannot say, my dears. I cannot say.
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