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The Facebook Issue.

Posted: 05-07-07

As I believe I mentioned a few weeks back, I have now had the misfortune of being a part of the "Facebook Revolution". I refer to my encounters somewhat disdainfully because, as has been already observed by other members whom I know, but who have not hypothesised and subsequently concluded as such: Facebook is actually a form of childlike intelligent life.

It has its own life-cycle - beginning with that gentle nudge, an email, lurking in amongst the p0rn, the pIl!5 and occasionally useful messages in your inbox. You are now aware that Dave from Sheffield has added you as a friend on Facebook, but you're not altogether sure who Dave is. And why would you? For Facebook is only at the very periphery of your being.

Facebook has spoken quietly and it has said "Hallo..?".

A week later, Mary from Penzance pokes you and you probably think that that's a bit rude and what you'd really like to do is jolly well go and poke her back.

Facebook has softly tapped you on the shoulder.

Then the absolute unthinkable happens. You login to Facebook. You create an account, mess with your profile a bit, possibly with a level of attention not dissimilar to that paid to your dating site profile when you lived in London and didn't have any friends. And you start to give a shit about how you come across to people you haven't seen for fourteen years.

Facebook knows you give a shit about how you come across to people you haven't seen for fourteen years.

Then the number of Facebook reminders exceeds four a day. This is roughly when you decide that a level of activity over and above e-voyeurism is required, so you write a bit of fluff on a wall here, you poke a few people there, you're having a jolly old time and you might even think to yourself that: "Hey, being a part of this feels really good."

Facebook also enjoyed a litre and a half of Strongbow Super when he was 15.

At some point as yet undetermined by science but popularly thought to be around the one month mark, you get poked once too many. You entertain the idea of a Facebook equivalent of the Trash folder. You see the "remove poke" link and you want do do it - but you can't. No. That'd be e-suicide. Like changing your Skype status to "away" and suddenly realising everyone online knows you're really still there, and now thinks you're a bit of a tosser.

Facebook has an immune defence system. And it works.

The reminder emails start to become a familiar feature of your everyday life, like the friendly train conductor on your way to work who saw action in the seventies and sounds as if he's no stranger to a case of Bourbon & Coke of a morning. Quite a few people you thought had completely forgotten about your existence are trying to get in touch and for reasons unknown to you - and probably to them.

Stalkbook is Facebook's nickname.

You become a regular; poking, writing and checking out all the features and applications that Facebook has to offer and inviting people to share these wonderful things with you. You might even create a group or two, even invite the greater Wellington region to a house party at that house next to the car dealership off Cambridge Terrace.

Stalkbook is OK with this.

But what happens now? You've reached the limit of what Facebook thinks you need for a happy, healthy and carefree life. You're as happy as Larry adding friends, writing monosyllabic, probably undecipherable pictographic messages, but now you're having to hide the fact you're on Facebook from your Boss.

You are addicted to Facebook.

And you know what the worst thing is? You never saw it coming.