So Long, Facebook. It’s Been 'Real.'

Yours truly has deactivated his Facebook account. Scandalous, I know.

By contemporary standards, I have committed an act of blasphemy. I have betrayed the gods of social media, and now, a sinner beyond redemption, I must live on the fringes of society as an outcast.

OK, so maybe it’s not that dramatic; but if you listened to the chorus of my comrades, you’d think I’d purchased an acre of land in a leper colony: “You’re getting rid of Facebook?! But, but, but, how are you going to stay in touch with people?”

My friends’ reactions shed a light on how much we rely on Facebook to maintain “human” connections. Apparently, all other forms of communication are primitive and downright dangerous. For example, I had no idea that speaking on the phone makes you ten times more likely to combust. Apparently, the same applies to personal e-mail.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not averse to progress. At 27, it would be laughable for me to pine for the days of two cans and a string. You’re never going to hear me say, “Leave your smoke signal after the tone, and I’ll get back to you.”

Yet, throughout the years, I’ve come to view Facebook as a double-edged sword in terms of benefit and personal cost. With all the convenience it offers in the way of connectivity, the nature of that very convenience becomes limiting, even confining. In order to stay in touch with people, you have to play by the rules of the social juggernaut, placing all of your eggs in one very public basket.

Many respond to this with a dose of good sense. Simply, don’t be so public on Facebook. Post conservatively, don’t upload wacky photos, the proponents advise. But if you’re anything like me, you want to get the most out of something. There’s little point to taking advantage of such a dynamic tool halfheartedly. Plus, exercising such restraint is an admission of the pitfalls of usage: namely, the magnifying glass you place yourself under with every personality survey you fill out. (Supposedly, if I were a country, I’d be Switzerland. Who knew?)

The coveted Book of Face has its advantages, don’t get me wrong. While traveling through Europe last summer, it allowed me to taunt my friends with posts like, “Raymond Beltran is parasailing over the Mediterranean. Neener, neener, neener.”  

That’s another thing. More Facebook equals less life adventure. If I could transform the moments spent pursuing Facebook into dollars, I’d be a gay Richard Branson. Sure, I’d be living in a hideskin tent in some leper colony, because I’d have no way to “get in touch with people,” but at least I’d have my billions.

So off I go, into an unknown world—the original world, really. One that existed before “likes” and “group invites.” Beware of early confidence, however. The Wolf Mother of social media is not about to let you out of her cave of connectivity so easily.

Facebook is a tricky mistress. The minute you say you’re out the door for good, she pulls out all the stops to lure you back with sentimental displays of the good times.

You see, as you prepare to leave Facebook, you first must sift through a collection of random pictures of you and your friends. Think of this as a creepy version of an exit interview. Apparently, these people will “miss me” and I should reconsider before choosing a life of social alienation and being lame.

I’ve never been someone who gets emotional over goodbyes, which is probably why I’m able to see Facebook’s attempt to make me stay for what it is: that of a desperate significant other who opens up the photo album when you’re breaking it off.

The parade of people you barely talk to marches before your eyes. “Brian will miss you, Devon will miss you; that girl you knew for five seconds in high school will miss you.”

I’m a great guy; I’d miss me, too. What I won’t miss is reading how quitting smoking and shoveling a sidewalk somehow qualifies you for sainthood.

To be fair, my posts on Facebook weren’t exactly Pulitzer worthy. My friends endured countless political rants and asinine postings in the dark of night.

I guess it all comes down to trust, doesn’t it? I don’t trust Facebook with my privacy, and I don’t trust myself not to need so much kept private. It’s the perfect recipe for calling it quits.

Even with good reasons for saying adios, it was surprisingly hard to do so. I posted on a Sunday that I would be deactivating my account the following day, giving people a chance to send me their contact info. The scheduled Monday turned into 11:57 p.m. on a Thursday, coupled with feelings of doubt and insecurity.

Before hitting “deactivate,” I began questioning my personal reasons for wanting to logoff for good. It wasn’t the middle school-esque photo montage Facebook threw at me or even the genuine convenience the site provides. Rather, it was the feeling that I was turning my back on society itself, that I was, indeed, joining a leper colony. And no matter what someone’s ethical convictions are, no one likes to be the odd one out.

That’s what Facebook has come to represent. It’s surpassed its goal of enabling community and is now our definition of community itself.

So, in lieu of a “News Feed” and a “Favorite Quotes” section, I’m choosing to make my own news and live a life worth quoting. In short, I choose life—the real kind.

If you need to get in touch with me, I’ll be parasailing over the Mediterranean.