FaecesBook

Well it is, isn't it?

I've decided that it is time to snap my addiction to BookFace. It is a time snatcher, a motivation muncher, an anger creator. For some time now I have berated myself for coming in from work, scrolling down my news feed and discovering that before I knew it three hours have passed by and my house is still a tip. I wake in the morning, look who is on chat, waffle about not much (unless it's Jenny, then I laugh, and think). I waste three more hours looking at my friend's cousin's dog with mange, then I go to work. Leaving my house, a hastily tidied tip.

I was recently subjected to a colleagues photographs of a recent holiday - "my suitcase!",  "My right flip flop", "my left flip flop", "pre party drinks" (yes, actual photograph of a group of glasses) "my airport chair" (sad face) ". I have spent far too long hiding, blocking, deleting those that offend me (far too many in my intolerant old age), raging about the fabulous argument starting upgrade of messaging "Message seen at: 10:05" *glances at watch, 10:10, RAGEHUFF*.

I can't stand the bad spelling, the poor grammar, the hashtags imported from twitter (why???), the inane groups, the ego massaging, the mortification of seeing my kid spew a volley of f-bombs to her friends - "they're only words mum!"

It is words, and photographs, and cartoons. All the things that I like, only on twatbook, diluted and diluted and diluted of all meaning and sense and beauty, until it is nothing that I like. "Hey, read this poem! (followed by shit, terrible poem, liked by 25 people, gushed over by the 5 of those that could be arsed to leave a comment. Instagram? Stoppit. 

Please. Really.

It is too instant. I am losing my ability to disseminate, to consider, to learn, to concentrate, digest. I have always been one to want to know everything about something, right this instant. But, I used to care enough to swallow that impatience, and slowly learn.
I find it hard to read a book these days. I feel as though Pesk is vanishing.

 I keep clicking onto my newsfeed to see updates. I get alerts - send Paul some coconuts for his farm, join Sue's army of avengers, help spot Pamela's hidden mystery, bake cakes in Tracey's cafe FUCK OFF.

I lost my eyelashes to racism, as my beautician outed her bigotry in an instant blaze of rage.  I did, really. The (hitherto quite lovely) woman who beautified me every month, posted that she voted BNP, after the horrendous killing of the Woolwich Soldier. How could I have not known that about her? That she was filled with ignorant, racist hatred? Because the thing we talked about as she coloured and fixed, was facebook. She must have known her opinions were a bit dodgy, she focused all her postings on photos of her in wellies at a million and one festivals. No BNP rallies though. I cancelled my next appointment. 

Othertimes, facebook makes me laugh, as I marvel that my erudite pals are fans of The Oatmeal, Dexter, Abba Tribute Bands. These are things I don't know about them, either. 


Scrolling through Facebook is like hiding in all of your pals wardrobes. It is standing against a wall with a glass pressed to my ear, and I don't like it. 

Lately, it makes me despair more and more. I see slights where there are none, and I am now not only too lazy to write a letter, I am too lazy to send an email. You don't use facebook IM? Chances are I don't speak to you often then. How terribly lazy facebook has made me.

I am addicted, and I am beginning to despise my drug. I have no doubt I will return - all my photographs are stored there, but I'm changing at least that, slowly, by returning to Flickr. 

Much like when I stopped watching television, and started doing (as instructed in the 70's) something much less boring instead, I shall keep doing less boring things instead, until the addiction is gone. I still barely watch TV, but now (20 years later) when I do, I enjoy it. I actually just bought one for the first time ever. Get me! So, I am certain I will return, but only when I don't care about it as much as I do.

I have picked up watercolours, I am making things. It really is, much less boring, and I am not drawn into sadness or anger anywhere near as much. My actual friends send me a text message, call me - I've had more phone calls today than I got in the whole of last week. No longer will colleagues I barely know, know me far too much. No longer will I dread seeing the man I still adore change his status to "In a relationship". No longer will I be privy to stuff that means more than it should, likewise stuff that I don't really give a shit about will remain unseen. 

When the addiction is broken, or when I can bear the wilderness no longer, I will go back. 

In the meantime, I will get over not being able to post to my status - "I just saw a crow mid flight with a MASSIVE pretzel in it's beak!" 

Instead, I will photograph it, paint it, blog it or write a poem about it (move over Ted Hughes).


And, breathe.

PS - my house is no longer a tip. May even get the staircase stripped at this rate...