noLOVE: kicking Facebook to the curb

A small flurry of concerned emails have reached me.  I assume many more won't.  Yes, I did the unthinkable and shut my Facebook account.  Think of it as self-censorship - I was about to Twitter a status update that was offensive, rude, and cruel, and although it was a statement of fact, it was meant to hurt and intimidate someone who quite frankly isn't worth my time.  

I think I'll just write one of those letters that don't ever get sent - you know, the ones that you vent and tell the other person horrible things like their hair looks funny and they're narrow-minded and money-grubbing or that they are so stupid they'd sell their car for gas money.  Where you lay down all the anger and frustration you're harbouring inside - past hurts and new ones alike - and say the unthinkable like... you wish they'd get a big pimple on their nose or get hit by a bus (which is always bad for me to say since my Mom is a busdriver...)  A long juicy letter in which you find ways to rip open past wounds or create new ones so you can keep pouring salt in them.  

In my case, I always want to make clever insults.  Good thing is, the people they're directed at usually don't pick up on it.  Problem is, the people they're directed at usually don't pick up on it.  Definitely a conundrum.  Saying things like, "Wherever you go, there you are," doesn't have the same impact on my chosen victim as would saying, "If I were you I'd probably commit suicide."  My last harsh insult, "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched because sometimes all you have are goose eggs," didn't make the intended recipient keel over in shame, cease and desist, or even hiccup.  Being magnanimous has its price - no one ever thinks you could possibly be mad, not for real, anyways... 

When I do write the occasional letter I get downright mean.  I'm sure it's not healthy.  I'm positive it isn't.  I cuss and swear a lot.  I make threats about peeing on car door locks in winter, tell you your boobs are droopy and your ass looks square in those jeans, complain about your nasally voice when you since along with the radio, and feel like I'm being generous when I accuse you of having the IQ of a potato.  I may throw out my conspiracy theories about you not really being innocent and throw in something about the fact your mother abandoned you should come as no surprise.  Lord help a woman in a state of real crisis with the bad luck to get struck down by PMS and it's anybody's guess just how far that name-calling, mudslinging, caterwauling, death-threatening letter is going to make it.  Rest assured, if you're one of my friends, you'll probably never know anything's wrong, especially now that I'm not on Facebook putting up esoteric status updates like, "Doesn't matter which side of the fence hop to, the grass is always greener on mine."

This is part of why I love my blog.  It's my own place to talk about my own stuff, without wondering if it's going to have the desired impact or mean anything or be completely unnoticed.  Blogs are more personal, and take some effort to comment on - you at least have to wait for approval or sign in or something, and type actual words, unlike the people like me who are overly anxious to click on that little thumbs-up icon or make a comment on every person's photo and status update so that we aren't... don't... ummm... what?  Going to make someone's day but putting a thumbs-up under the picture they took of their new car?  Damn, I miss emails.

So after pulling the chute on the FB account we went for a picnic with our dog last night instead.  Two great discoveries, one day:  I learned how much easier it is to bite my tongue when I don't feel arbitrarily pressured to censor myself, and Art, well - he's definitely a water dog.