Not long after I left high school, say, 2007, it became cool to talk shit about Facebook. It’s implicitly disingenuous. The people who use it are disingenuous. Capitalism. It’s distracting. Trolls. Cyber bullying. Identify theft. Advertisements. It’s problematic. Zuckerberg is problematic. I’m too cool for it. I’m not cool enough for it. Employers see it. Capitalism. And so forth.
I am not unfamiliar with holding some these opinions simultaneously.
More obviously Facebook reminds, rather it forces me to communicate with people all over the world. Even the ones that are “meh” humans, because fuck it, why not. Facebook has prevented meaningful relationships from dissolving into the obscure necessity of capitalism and loneliness. It reminds me why those relationships were meaningful to begin with.
I tend to burn bridges, but I’m a terrible engineer.
“The test of a first rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.” The quote doesn’t mean shit on its own, but it otherwise admits that nearly all diasporic peoples, and all queer folks who survive in majority society are geniuses by circumstance. David Shields makes a point to say that Fitzgerald’s unnecessary comma itself, is problematic in its divisiveness.
A friend on Facebook talked to me about her failed suicide attempt while I sat in my car with a gun my lap. She’s still alive, and I sold the gun shortly after.
Roxane Gay has spoken volumes to such truths: the complexity in her own feminism, lavishing in the ability to be wrong sometimes, to be contradictory, to be human. To listen or dance to the Yin Yang Twins as they demand that you to get low.
Facebook was where I learned “It’s Complicated.”
Zadie Smith does not use social media because it would prevent her from writing. “I want to have my feeling, even if it’s wrong, even if it’s inappropriate, express it to myself in the privacy of my heart and my mind. I don’t want to be bullied out of it.” Staying off the web “protects her right to be wrong.” But not really, since wrongness never exists in a vacuum. Though more selfishly I’m interested in reading and hearing what Zadie Smith has to say anyway. And if I had the profile of a Zadie Smith I would not want to be constantly badgered by a citizenry desperately waiting for me to slip up so that they could attack me with their twitter fingers. I also don’t think everyone’s right to be wrong should be treated equally, as wrong thoughts are a large category of things ranging from the cute and fluffy to the sharp and murdery.
I wrote about my own politics being trash because they are, but aren’t. I don’t really think that, but I do.
Facebook reminds me that I’m very often code switching in my own head and that I should stop because I’m at home alone heating up leftovers.
I don’t really have a crush on Valerie from Riverdale because she’s a teenager in a small town, though Hayley Law was born in 1992, which is probably still too young for me. But technically, legally it’s not. And it doesn’t matter anyway because she’s an actress, and assuming she would be interested becomes more problematic than the crush itself. Plus thinking of a twenty-four-year old as too young for me at twenty nine is pretentious too, still, when I was eighteen she was thirteen. What to do?
Facebook has the news: People are taking knees and no one agrees.
Some close friends of mine are cops, but them niggas are also Black.
My Facebook friends inhabit different worlds, even when they live in the same cities.
I found out about one of my favorite magazines, The Offing, because Kiese Laymon posted about it on Facebook. Eventually, they published a piece of mine that I’m still I’m quite proud of.
Facebook reminds me of my own conflicting ideas, dogmas and ideologies. Sometimes it allows me to read people better, not because I think a Facebook persona is a genuine articulation of any human being, but more because I think the fiction [see persona] an individual chooses to display says more than they’re ready to tell.
The Facebook logo is blue.
I was talking with a friend about why some people–myself included–feel like fiction is more revealing and personal than essay or memoir and I look at my own stories and think: You could have said anything, and you wrote this? And about Achy Obejas’ stories, We came all the way from Cuba so you could dress like this? As I get older, I feel less ashamed or apologetic about who I am, or was, but the fidelity of what I could choose to be, to create, if anything [fiction] is much more contentious, more emotionally fraught. Probably why there’s so little fiction here.