What’s on your mind?

Some of you seem to be confused by my social media strategy.

Actually deleting Facebook would be tantamount to Internet suicide. I am into triple reverse meta-ironic Facebook usage now. By posting on Twitter and Instagram and automatically sharing to Facebook, I can fling rocks at the poop without burying myself in it neck deep.

I have no hope that any of you will receive this message, since roughly ten people click these links on any given day, but maybe it will travel through the grapevine to your waiting ears. I may memorize this URL so that next time one of my co-workers laughs at me for giving up on my Facebook strike after less than a week, I can just start bellowing it over and over. “Get a pen. H T T P colon forward slash forward slash…”

(It’s okay, Veronique. I thought it was funny too.)

If you want to telegraph all your questionable political opinions while the online shock troops of the incoming American President are gearing up for war by sending death threats and showing up at pizza parlors with assault rifles (yes, gun nuts, I just used the meaningless term assault rifle and I also own firearms), be my guest. I will be out here orbiting Star Wormwood in my tin can, tossing down shitty poetry and propaganda leaflets.

I’ve also noticed that you never, ever click these links. IT WON’T FUCKING KILL YOU.

As always, I find that an adversarial relationship with my dwindling readership is best. Mom is out of town, in Boston visiting her other offspring, and there’s nothing left to do but browbeat the rest of you. I reached my highest audience yet in the month of November. December is threatening to plummet me back from semi-obscurity into absolute obscurity. It’s life on the Z List.

I do not often meta-post like this because no one gives a shit, but today isn’t a pity party. This is information you require in order to function in the future. I am not on Facebook, kids. I am not staring at my timeline. I am not plugged into the fucking feed. I do not have the app, I do not open the site in my browser, and I don’t see those delicious notifications. I am not a slave to the Almighty Algorithm. Well, I am, but I’ll stand across the street and yell at it instead of crawling under its boot.

It’s probably best to continue in this Wil Wheatonesque manner, to shit on Facebook from afar but still cross-post to it, to whine on Twitter, and to only respond to inquiries on my blog. My Internet personality is a mix between him and Kanye West. It’s worked for me since last century.

Still, I can’t get bogged down in that when I have other things to do, like raising two girls and an infant, staring at my beautiful wife (who is kind enough to keep me abreast of the important Facebook developments, delivering a Reader’s Digest version so I don’t have to gaze upon Medusa myself), and coming up with the Next Epic Tweetstorm That Will Get Me Noticed (by Eva Green’s oldest unofficial fan page, over 8000 impressions, fam).

Sorry, Zuckerberg. It’s the dopamine economy, and you just aren’t paying off. No amount of cute compilation videos will make up for the days I poured my heart out to the tune of two clicks. I’d rather climb into Kenscott Giga Ball and taste the void.

It’s over, baby. Have fun giving the Gestapo an easy list of people to collect in January, guys. I’ll be here, shitposting harder than ever.

I’d rather die on my blog than live on Facebook.

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