If Hamlet was Sick of Facebook . . .

To Facebook, or not to Facebook–that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous items in my newsfeed,
Or to take arms against a sea of restaurant check-ins,
And by opposing, end them.
To log off, to live, and by live to say we end the heartache
of wasting time watching the thousand pointless
cat-on-a-roomba videos that Facebook is heir to.
‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
To log off, to live–
To live– perchance to interact with actual people; ay, there’s the rub,
For in that real world what friends and comments may come
When we have shuffled off this user-friendly interface,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of high speed internet.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of no one liking your comments,
The default privacy settings, pics of someone else having a fabulous trip while you sit home,
News of a great party you are missing, the inscrutable terms and conditions,
The insolence of the help pages, and the aggravation
of Facebook not showing your posts in newsfeeds of people that really matter,
When he himself might his quietus make
and cancel his account with a bare mouse click?
Who would promoted ads bear,
To put up with horrifically shot pointless phone cam videos,
But that the dread of something after signing off one’s account,
The undiscovered country of real life, from whose bourn
No traveller goes back to social media, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those 2,487 low-maintenance Facebook friends we have,
Than fly to others in real life that we know not of?
Thus Mark Zuckerberg does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Soft you now, someone liked one of my comments!!
Unknown friend of a friend, in thy orisons be my highly exaggerated profile remembered.