So, Facebook, you’ve turned 10. Not sure how to respond to that. But one thing is for sure: you’ve changed my life ... and the Internet forever.
I deal with you every day. In fact, it’s my job to deal with you. I get paid to work with you.
Sometimes you make me smile – like today, when you surprised me (and all my family, friends, colleagues, people I’ve met for five seconds, stalkers, future husbands, my grandmother’s sister’s hairdresser with whom I am connected, thanks to you) with a lovely movie of our time together.
Très cool, Facebook. Très cool.
Other days I want to stab you in your left eye with a fish fork. Because you change, without warning or notice. You add things, take them away, make me get used to the status quo and them bam! I can’t do things like I used to. What’s with changing your algorithms – I have clients I report to, and they want to see how hard I’m working.
But I suppose you keep me on my toes. And what’s a relationship without some surprises, right?
We’ve had our ups and downs – thanks for the like button, which makes me seem interested in the mundane affairs of people I don’t really care about. But really, just what was that episode with the security settings? And that irritating habit you have of notifying me every time someone comments on something I’ve just commented on. Huge, huge pain in the you-know-what.
And really, how difficult can it be to allow us to schedule albums? And while we’re at it, how about an unlike button?
Look, for the most part you make me happy. Make my clients happy. And I’m happy to spend every waking moment with you. I’m addicted to you.
I reach for you first thing in the morning, and last thing at night. You’ve seen me cry, celebrate, throw tantrums. You’ve been there through major life events, and all those not-so-major ones. I’ve shared the pictures with you. You know me better than any real, live person.
Thanks to you, darling Facebook, people I don’t know think I’m an intelligent adventurer who’s travelled the world, have loads of friends and lead one of the most interesting lives imaginable. I can misquote long-dead philosophers (really, who’s going to check? It’s Facebook), upload amazing (stolen) photographs, and manipulate the mundane events in my life – so reheated spaghetti, for supper again, becomes a “wow, I’m having a heavenly dish of home-made pasta with gourmet tomato and basil sauce” event.
I love you, Facebook, and happy birthday.
PS I hope the rumours of your imminent demise are not true.