"_______ has tagged a photo of herself."
It might as well just read, "look at how good of a time your ex is having without you."
You've fought the urge to check her profile for days, weeks even. But what an ironic fluke this little blurb popped up on your home page? A coincidence is just a polite word to describe a cruel cosmic joke with you as the punch line. Paranoia sets in. She doesn't go out on Thursdays. Why is she smiling? She never wore that dress around me. Who is that guy in the background??
Facebook has done it again. That two-faced little formula Mr. Zuckerberg so cleverly designed has burst your comfortable bubble of blissful, naïve denial.
Suddenly you remember you stored away her pin number somewhere in that Leviathan of a phone; now she's on speed dial, not to mention the 400 photos and two dozen customized playlists she accumulated on your iPod. You have 93 "Friends in Common" with her, each one feeling the urgency to "discreetly" remind her on her public wall how much of a tool her ex was. And don't even start thinking about her "tweeting" obsession.
And then it sets in. Something worse than the way you should have felt when it ended. The numbness is gone, and all you are left with is bittersweet melancholia, if you're lucky. You are, in all senses of the word, trapped.
What happens when relationships end? Facebook, like all other social networking sites, have one damaging flaw: algorithms cannot predict the inherently unpredictable roller-coaster ride that defines our relationships. A break up simply does not compute.
Social media works to connect people in a way that reflects our interactions in real life: The site picks up on cues from the frequency of interactions between users to organize a personalized social pyramid. If you're tagged in a few pictures with the same person (or people), Facebook naively assumes that they are your friends, and warrant a special place at the top of your updates list. It is a poetic form of direct marketing, and in a way, it works. Facebook objectively reminds you of those who have the most impact on your life, and slowly buries those who don't.
But if the Gods of the internet can so deviously devise ways to connect people, why haven't they figured out how to isolate us too?
If Facebook really wants to reflect real life, they need to figure out a way to include all of the irrational, neurotic and just plain strange behavior that accompanies something like a breakup. So for anyone who has ever been dumped, I invite you to invest in the wave of the future. The app that will turn Jobs and Gates salivating with envy. Just open the program and write his or her name:
Your mouse will immediately turn into a box of matches so you can systematically light every photo on virtual fire. Or a pair of scissors, with the option to cut out the silhouette of the former lover and snap in a new body. Maybe your new beaux, or a cartoon character. Twitter accounts will be blocked, but not before choosing from a list of clever parting messages specifically directed at the ex, beautiful professionally done "Tweets" that leave him/her livid, yet still missing you. Extended essays complete with "self-written" poetry are also available for your email account. All of this, of course, can only be seen by you. Think of it as a way to get back on the horse, to move on. Or as a delusional reality.
Newly updated photos of the ex will arrive on Facebook with strangers' comments reminding him how much of a tool he is. And of course, you will receive three new wall posts from our most attractive faux profiles each day publishing to the world what a catch you are.
So what will this whole service cost, you ask? I'm thinking around $99.99 a week. Steep, I know. But getting even with your ex? That's priceless, my friend.
Hunter Vaughan contributes to senior dating websites.
