‘And what do you get out of that?’ asks a hardworking late-fifties somebody with a low probing voice.
In fact, 'facebooking' is some sort of self-imposed phobia where I literally suffer from. For fear of missing something of importance, I check the un-Wageningen commercial medium more than once daily to enrich myself with the biggest possible frivolousness the world has ever been endowed with. A few examples:
- Am I happier because I know that someone has fallen off his bicycle three times?
- Has my life acquired more meaning with the knowledge that an ex-classmate pisses against a lamppost at night?
- Do I really have to know when which birdwatcher spots a bufflehead duck?
And that's not all. More melodramatic than reading about a faraway girlfriend who has eaten her first kale before the onset of night frost are the sixteen responses to such nonsense. Or what can I do with so-called humorous posts following an announcement such as: 'yummy dessert with layers of cake, curd cheese and homemade jam'? Maybe I should just make friends with serious people, but professional pages such as Linkedin are able to make me deplore my future even more. When I log onto that site, I am swamped with helpless jobless graduates who are dying for a job. Well, are you looking for an ambitious ecologist? I can give you seven candidates, excluding myself in two years' time.
It is an exceptionally destructive addiction: social media. I read it all, at a time of all times when I am busy with really important matters. Some time ago, I heard on the radio that active Facebookers score a full point lower in exams, thanks to their goings-on. I can empathize with that.
I quit. I will give my life some real significance. Later. First, I'm going to log onto my Facebook.