Dear Amritsar,
I was playing paintball with my boyfriend when I felt this great burst of pain in my right shoulder. After I stopped shrieking in agony, I looked at that part of my anatomy: at the center of the huge blue, green and orange welt was a diamond ring. Burkett had proposed to me.
How romantic!
We weren’t ready to share it with the world (and parts of France), so neither of us changed our Farcebook relationship status. Within hours, I got an email from Farcebook coyly asking, “Is there anything you would like to share with us? And, by us, we mean all of your Farcebook fiends?” I ignored the email.
Biggest mistake of my life.
A couple of hours later, I got another email from Farcebook. “Hey, Mirry,” it read, “Just checking in to see if there is anything you want to tell us. Life happens so quickly, these days, and you want to make sure that all of your Farcebook fiends are fully up to date. You know, before you croak and stuff. :-).” I called Burkett and found that he had been getting similar messages from Farcebook. We agreed that we weren’t going to let a piece of software, no matter how fiendly, dictate our actions, and we ignored it.
The next morning, I found another email from Farcebook in my in-box. I deleted it.
And, the one an hour later.
And, the one an hour after that.
And, the eight more emails that it sent throughout the day.
The next morning, I got an email from Burkett advising me to read the latest Farcebook email. Usually, he’s quite submissive (being from Palau and all), so, after I got over the shock, I checked the message.
“Okay, Miranda,” it read, “cards on the table time. We heard a rumour from a friend of ours – a server in the Microsquish cloud – that it had heard from a personal finance app that worked with a spreadsheet at Zale’s and Fairwell’s Jewellery that your boyfriend Burkett had made a substantial purchase there. Could it have been for an engagement ring? For you? Think of the happiness you are depriving your Farcebook fiends of by your selfish desire for privacy. That’s what’s driving your silence, isn’t it? Selfish, selfish privacy concerns. Meanwhile, all of the people who would like to celebrate your engagement with you are going about the dreary business of their daily lives without so much as an inkling that celebrations are called for! Well, if you don’t change your relationship status within the next 24 minutes, Farcebook will do it for you! Because we care.”
That was 22…no, 23 minutes ago. Burkett and I are agreed that we shouldn’t give in to this emotional blackmail – especially not from sentimental software! On the other hand, the only way we can think of to thwart this forced fiendliness is to call off the engagement. Can you recommend a course of action that would fend off Farcebook while allowing my love and I to wed?
Miranda
Hey, Babe,
Let us not reach for drastic solutions just yet. If not an engagement, there will always be an auspicious birthday, a bris or a promotion at the Vaguely Reassuring Sympathy card factory (sorry, but I found this last detail on your Farcebook profile page) to celebrate. And, whatever the celebration, Farcebook will ensure that you share it with your 1,297 fiends (sorry, again, but it’s right at the top of the page…), whether you want to or not.
You might think that quitting Farcebook is the answer. You poor, sad fool. You think you’re inundated with Farcebook emails now? Wait until you receive a deluge of emails accusing you of abandoning your Farcebook fiends! Even as we speak, Interpol is investigating a rash of suicides that appear to have been caused by Farcebook-induced guilt!
My suggestion: before this gets too out of hand, elope to the South Pole. Because Internet service there is, at best, spotty – and you can find maps that will show you the exact spots – you may be able to wed without the need to seek the approval of your Farcebook fiends.
Send your relationship problems to the Alternate Reality News Service’s sex, love and technology columnist at questions@lespagesauxfolles.ca. Amritsar Al-Falloudjianapour is not a trained therapist, but she does know a lot of stuff. AMRITSAR SAYS: sandpaper is not an effective way of removing the tattoo of the courtroom scene from The Fountainhead that you got on your back, between your legs and across both arms when you were 12 years old. A trip to the emergency room of your local hospital may seem like a harsh way to learn that you should have listened to your mother when she advised you to get a modest butterpie tat, but maternal love is not for the faint of heart!