How I Survived a Year and a Half Without Facebook, Part 2: The Clean Break

As you may have guessed, a social networking site whose revenue depends entirely on their promise to ad-buyers of thousands upon thousands of users does not take kindly to quitters. Signing up is easy: just type in a name and an email address (and everyone has one of those, what are you, feral?) and remember your alphanumeric password just long enough to click the “remember me” box. Quitting is another matter entirely. First you have to figure out how, and Facebook does not volunteer this information willingly. I ended up googling “how to quit facebook” and following some kind soul’s instructions.

Once I’d managed to find and click on the words “deactivate my account,” Facebook appeared to go into shock. The conversation went something like this:

“I’d like to see other websites.”

“Yeah, I know you’re getting into Google+, how’s that turning out for you? You know I’m okay with that, right? I never said anything about being exclusive.”

“No, I mean, I’d like to see other websites, and not you.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you really, really sure?”

“Yes, I’m really, really sure.”

“Pretty-sure with gumdrops on top?”

“Just delete my account already!”

“Okay, as long as you’re sure...”

“I am.”

“But are you really? Because I think your friend Jasen might miss you. Don’t you want to stay in touch with Jasen? He spends a lot of time here.”

“Yes, I know, because I live  with him. I see him every day. We’re engaged, as you very well know.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, what about Michelle? She lives hundreds of miles away. How are you going to keep in touch with her if not through me?”

“I don’t know, by phone? She rarely updates anyway. Since she, you know, has a life? She doesn’t need you, and neither do I.”

“Well, I guess if you’re really, really sure. Just tell me one thing.”

Here I sighed in exasperation. “What is it?”

“Why do you want to leave me?”

Facebook displayed a list of possible reasons to choose from. No matter which one I chose, it came up with a way to fix that problem. In the end I chose to say that I did not find Facebook “useful.”

“Really? You know, you might find me more useful if you’d just find more friends. Or maybe you just don’t know how to use all my wonderful features. I’m sure if you visit the Help page, you’ll find just what you need.”

“Look. It’s not about what I need. It’s about what I don’t need, and I don’t need you. Please delete my account.”

“Sigh. As you wish. I’ll do it. Nobody will see your profile or your comments or your pictures. You’ll be turned away from your old friends’ personal profiles. All your information, your past status updates, your old pictures and tags, will be gone, and you can never get them back again.”

“Good.”

“Yep. Gone forever, unless you log back in.”

“Wait. What?”

“You know, just in case you change your mind. You just have to type in your old username and password, and your profile will magically reappear, just as if you’d never left.”

“Seriously? I thought you were going to delete it.”

“Oh, sure, but come on. Why burn bridges? I just want you to know that I’ll be waiting for you, and if you ever feel like picking up where we left off... just drop on by, and I’ll be there. Just like old times.”

At this point I would have given Facebook a much-needed talk on the importance of moving on and accepting loss, but then I remembered that I was talking to a website, and just clicked “okay,” as if everything was. After reassuring Facebook that I was indeed who I said I was, that I wasn’t an imposter trying to maliciously delete an innocent person’s account, and that no, I did not want Facebook to send me periodic emails “just to check in,” I was finally free. No more Facebook.

It felt good to break it off. I announced on Twitter and Google+ that I’d now be using them exclusively, and I enjoyed a slightly-less-encumbered online existence... for a while.

To find out what happened next, go on to Part 3.