I love that I’ve been able to reconnect with people I haven’t seen in years and years and years. I love that I’ve made so many new friends, folks I’d never have met any other way, but with whom, it turns out, I share a lot of interests.
I love that I’ve found former co-workers, some from my very first job. I love that I can, so quickly and easily, keep in touch with friends and family who live far away. For that matter, I love hearing about everything that’s going on with friends, acquaintances, colleagues and family who live here, in Toronto.
I love the photos and the recipes and the articles and the videos and the conversations and the jokes and the stories and the future plans and the celebrations and the decisions everyone posts. I love that we’re all willing to share aspects of our lives with each other and that we’ve got somewhere we can do it. But …
If I see one more (bleep) “memory” Facebook wants to remind me about, wants me to post I will scream so loud Mark Zuckerberg will hear me in California. Enough with the memories. I keep “hiding” the suggestions, I keep clicking on “see less of these messages” and I get more of them every freakin’ day.
Don’t give me choices and then ignore me when I choose. When — and if — I ever want to re-post old news, I’ll do it on my own without you nagging me about it.
This is dangerous territory I’m about to tread on, I know that, because I’m going to bitch about the ads on Facebook; and advertising is how I earn my living.
So to all of my agency friends out there, just hear me out before you yell at me, screaming “treason.” I get it. I understand the ads have to be there. But for (bleep) sake, make them relevant. If you are going to interrupt my news feed with ads, match them to my interests. You know what they are. You follow my every move on the Internet. Case in point:
Getting older can be tough enough. You are NOT endearing yourselves to me by putting ads for incontinence products on my timeline! Never ever have I done any searches, or checked any websites, for adult diapers. So how the (bleep) did you decide I’d be in the market for them???
For the record, the last time I pooped my pants I was probably about two years old. And while I am keenly aware that old age can do evil things to the bladder and the bowels, I really don’t need you to rub my nose in it (so to speak). If you want to give me something to look forward to, make it an ad for cheap airfares to Paris.
And stop messing with my timeline. Every time I turn around, you’re changing it. Adding something, moving something, removing something. I liked it the way it was! Just the other morning I got a bloomin’ message on my Facebook iPhone app informing me that my changes (or updates, or however it was phrased) had been made and you hoped I like them.
Did I ask you to change anything?
Well, seeing as how you asked, I don’t like the changes. I don’t want the first thing I see to be where I worked. I know where I worked. “Work” is not why I’m on Facebook. And what the hell did you do with my photos? I can’t find them anywhere. And, no, I don’t want to choose five “featured photos.” I want to see all my photos, just like I used to — and if I ever change my mind about that, I’ll get rid of them myself, thank you very (bleep) much.
Stop tinkering with what doesn’t need tinkering.
That is all.