Banished to the Hinterlands! Part 1

To cut to the chase, my account at Facebook has been terminated for good, for all time, and please don’t come back. And so ended my relationship with Mark Zuckerberg and his minions of busy-brained beavers.

The email said all that in sparse language that was, undeniably, hard to argue with. It went on to say that I had created multiple false accounts and broken a number of community standards, including the use of inappropriate language, homophobia and, in general, rude references to the gay community. Internet stalking was mentioned, but nothing that stuck. 

To my chagrin, it was all true. I was caught like a rat in a trap. And so a decision was rendered in my “case” and I was to be banned for life. Adios, mofo. No receipt, no return. Time stood still. My mind raced ahead… forever separated from my precious flow of packaged Information! How would I stand it? What would I do over morning coffee? 

I punched open another window and went to FB login where I typed in my username and password, then thumped on the Return key. The browser responded with a pop-up. What’s this? I peered closer. Instead of the comforting arrangement of facts and figures on my home page, I stared at the message. It said, “Your FB account has been terminated.” Harsh, but elegant in its simplicity. Indeed, it was true. 

Of course, I tried a different digital route via my cellphone. Same thing. Defeated and momentarily crushed, I considered what I had lost and how would I ever manage my life again? Man, that’s where I meet chicks. My calender is on FB, phone numbers, all that stuff. Wait, phone numbers are on the phone. A twinge of relief. And chicks? At my age, it’s all a scam. All that stuff gone. Restaurant specials, expired free digital passes, wedding announcements for people I did not know, the crush and whining mass of opinionated and frustrated white liberal housewives – in my case, ex-wives – and a flood of recipes and email chains that warn you about breaking the chain ‘cause then you’ll go to hell, and so much more that it’s become common, perhaps even a little comforting, the sameness of it all as it establishes the foundation of my intellectual reality automatically, digitally, just for me. Autopilot. Easy-peasy, slick and sleazy. I don’t have to think about a thing. I am the body electric. At least, I used to be.