I've been thinking about leaving Facebook for a while, and now seems like as good a time as any. A friend of mine was talking to me recently about how he gave up Facebook for Lent (I typically joke that I'm giving up abstinence for Lent); how many more productive things could he be doing with his time than idly scrolling through status updates? Especially after this past election season, Facebook has become less of a place to share your interests and catch up with friends, and more of a place to shout opinions, post inflammatory links, and give your friends reasons to never speak to you again. Frankly, I think a lot of us could use a break.
This past weekend I got to meet up with a few of my fellow GameCola staffers for the biggest party I've been to since college. (Bear in mind that my definition of "party" typically includes people staying up until 3 AM playing games and drinking beer—that is, video and root, respectively. This one was no different.) The party itself was a blast, but it wasn't just playing The Cave or smashing up a llama piñata wearing a top hat and monocle that made the evening so enjoyable—it was spending time engaged in these activities with other people. At a distance, we forget that our friends are not solely the sum of their posts and tweets—I was playing New Super Mario Bros. Wii U with friends, not simply some people who write GameCola articles.
It's tough to return Facebook after that. Ha ha, you said something funny. I'd hit the Like button, but that would imply I wholeheartedly support the views expressed in your post, and it also shows favoritism if I don't Like every single thing that makes me laugh—at which point it looks like I like everything everybody posts, which robs me of my individuality. I could be overthinking this. I could also be tired of walking on eggshells every time I respond to a comment, for fear of inadvertently hitting a nerve when I'm trying to be helpful or silly—facial expressions and body language don't translate well into the text of a status update, and moods can shift so drastically by the time you're finally responding to something. Some people you haven't seen in years aren't the same people you used to know, though you couldn't tell from what they post. Things happen to people that they do not talk about online. I'm interacting with fragments of my friends anytime I'm on Facebook anymore; I miss the people.
It's not like I'm terribly difficult to locate online, and my phone still works—I'm not turning my back on the world here. I haven't been on AOL Instant Messenger for nearly a decade; I think Facebook can make do without me for a while.
This past weekend I got to meet up with a few of my fellow GameCola staffers for the biggest party I've been to since college. (Bear in mind that my definition of "party" typically includes people staying up until 3 AM playing games and drinking beer—that is, video and root, respectively. This one was no different.) The party itself was a blast, but it wasn't just playing The Cave or smashing up a llama piñata wearing a top hat and monocle that made the evening so enjoyable—it was spending time engaged in these activities with other people. At a distance, we forget that our friends are not solely the sum of their posts and tweets—I was playing New Super Mario Bros. Wii U with friends, not simply some people who write GameCola articles.
It's tough to return Facebook after that. Ha ha, you said something funny. I'd hit the Like button, but that would imply I wholeheartedly support the views expressed in your post, and it also shows favoritism if I don't Like every single thing that makes me laugh—at which point it looks like I like everything everybody posts, which robs me of my individuality. I could be overthinking this. I could also be tired of walking on eggshells every time I respond to a comment, for fear of inadvertently hitting a nerve when I'm trying to be helpful or silly—facial expressions and body language don't translate well into the text of a status update, and moods can shift so drastically by the time you're finally responding to something. Some people you haven't seen in years aren't the same people you used to know, though you couldn't tell from what they post. Things happen to people that they do not talk about online. I'm interacting with fragments of my friends anytime I'm on Facebook anymore; I miss the people.
It's not like I'm terribly difficult to locate online, and my phone still works—I'm not turning my back on the world here. I haven't been on AOL Instant Messenger for nearly a decade; I think Facebook can make do without me for a while.
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