Untold Stories

Two years ago, I learned tonight, I was in a strange mood. Facebook told me. Facebook also revealed that I watched snow fall in Dallas six years ago today.  Why does that matter?

Well, it matters because Facebook has a better memory than do I. And Facebook has more friends than I do. And  Facebook can manufacture memories, if it chooses, and make me believe they are mine.

For example, Facebook told me once that I spent an extraordinary night with a woman I won’t name (though I have evidence she reads this blog on rare occasion), arguing about the best way to peel oranges. Was that my memory or was that an artifact of Facebook’s penchant for toying with me? I guess I won’t know. Because she won’t bring it up.

And Facebook tells me stories about my bad moods. Facebook offers up rants I never intended to share with the world and laughs all the while I beg that they be hidden again.

There is so much more to say, but this is Monday, thus I must soften my explosive sharing of information no one wants to hear. If you’re patient, though, you might read the rest of this later, when I’m older.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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2 Responses to Untold Stories

  1. LTL JMY says:

    Monsignor, the memories are only shared with you. The ravings of the lunatic within you will not be seen by anyone else unless you specifically tell Facebook to share them. That being said, there are days when I love Facebook and there are days when I hate it. However, I believe the loathing should be reserved more for myself since I cannot let go of my relationship with this platform… Oh well… Whatever…

  2. robin andrea says:

    I once had a love/hate relationship with Facebook, now I’m pretty much just indifferent. I post things there every so often, but mostly I like blogging and keeping a journal of our time.

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