I don’t want to know who has new friends. I don’t want people knowing when I have new friends. I don’t want to know that Dan Fogelberg is popular among my Red Hat friends — in fact, discovering that fact makes me downright angry.
I don’t want a key to anyone’s heart. I don’t want to play Oregon Trail. I don’t want to be a zombie, or a vampire, or a werewolf, or a transvestite succubus hooker. I don’t want to be in a dance contest, and I don’t want to play poker, and I don’t care how many chips some asshat I knew from high school *twenty years ago* has in his account.
I don’t want to join your group, and I don’t want to play trivia, and I don’t want want to be your top friend. And you there, especially — you know who you are — I don’t want to take your drunk quiz, and I don’t want to know who my secret admirer is, and I most *certainly* do not want to know what kind of lingerie you think you should be wearing.
Oh, and here’s another thing that I *really* don’t want. When I engage in a lengthy email disagreement with my wife, I *don’t* want to see gmail recommend a bleeping counselor to me, or to sell me a bunch of bleeping penis pills!
I do not want the default state of my online life to say, in neon signs, “snoop into my bleeping bidness”.
So bleep you, web two dot oh. I’ve had my fill. Bleep you, bleep you, bleep you, you’re cool, and bleep you, I’m out.