Hey Facebook, What the Fuck?
Over the past day or so, I have received many emails from alarmed friends and colleagues alerting me to the fact that my Facebook account has been disabled by an administrator. To which I say: what the fuck?
How am I supposed to maintain my vast terrorist network without this social networking site?
While it’s true that I never poke, nor poke back, I think I’ve been a loyal and true Facebook friend. I always accept friendship requests, right up to the bullshit 5,000 friend limit. Facebook, is it my fault that more than 5,000 people want to feel my love? No, it is not. It is the fault of my genetically superior brain and startling good looks. If you’re going to start discriminating against gorgeous geniuses, then I don’t even know what.
How am I supposed to receive invitations to events to which I have no interest in attending? How am I supposed to keep up with what various high school students I have never met are doing? How am I supposed to install and then uninstall various applications because they are annoying? Facebook, don’t you realize that these activities take up most of my waking hours?
I feel like I did that time in North Carolina when I got thrown out of the frat party for “acting weird.” Yes, I was acting weird but that was only to mask my own insecurities. It probably didn’t help that I was the only thirty seven year old man there, but regardless, Facebook are you punishing me for my insecurities? If so, you need to take a good, long look in the mirror because I suspect you are getting pretty insecure yourself. After all, my valuation hasn’t tumbled 75% in recent months.
Neither of us generate as much advertising revenue as we would like, but that’s not my fault. I didn’t create your shitty business model. All I did was write a scathing article about it in the Wall Street Journal, which I then reprinted and left under people’s windshields at the mall. Don’t kill the messenger, Facebook!
So now I have to contact you. Which I am confident is going to be neither easy nor pleasant. Contacting an internet company is only slightly easier than contacting an alien civilization. But I am going to try, Facebook, because I don’t want it to end like this for us. We’ve been through so much together. Like the time I played that game of Scramble. Or the time you tagged that photo of me. We can get through this. And we will. But until we do, go fuck yourself, you fucking worthless piece of shit.