I want to terminate my account, but I just can't quit you.
I walked out on Myspace without a second thought. I left Rupert Murdoch and the pedophiles without hesitation, but what is it about you that I can't let go?
After all, you're merely a shell of your former self, Facebook. I remember my freshman year when you were still only for us -- college students. When we could talk about parties without the cops reading it, post pictures of our friends sucking face with randoms without their moms seeing, and use the F-word in updates without getting a call from grandma.
I know you're free and beggars can't be choosers, but come on -- enough is enough.
The constant stream of commercial BS, the causes, the groups, the fan pages, the stupid games, the 50-something former absentee fathers trying to make up for lost time by Internet stalking their baby girls, willing them to not get pregnant while abroad -- you've just become more trouble than you're worth.
But there is some voyeuristic quirk, some small voice inside that calls from within whenever my cursor hovers over the "deactivate account" button.
I want to see those who wronged me get their just deserts. You call them my friends, Facebook but frienemies is more fitting.
The voice cries, "Noooo! ... What about those losers from high school spawning offspring like it's going out of style -- don't you want to see the pictures of their ugly babies? What about those jocks flipping burgers back home -- don't you want to be just a little part of their exquisite misery?"
It brings me back from the brink. Schadenfreude (an amazing German word meaning to take delight in another's misfortune) takes hold and persuades me to reconsider terminating you, Facebook.
But just as sweet as taking delight in others' misfortune is getting to announce my successes, no matter how minor.
Every scholarship, promotion, vacation, physical achievement and even sickness is chronicled with careful attention to detail, just so I can achieve maximum envy from my peers.
Seriously, if restaurants still gave out "I'm a good eater" awards to 20-somethings, I would post a status update about it.
Does this make me a bastard? Absolutely, but don't act like one-upping your peers isn't one of the things everyone loves about you, Facebook.
And when I talk to you, Facebook, I'm addressing not only your admins but also your users -- all 400 million.
Schadenfreude wasn't adopted because it rolls off the tongue. For whatever reason, the Germans gave birth to an etymological golden child. The meaning resonates well throughout every culture.
Admit it -- you love when you come home from college and your mom updates you on what everyone is up to these days. You know that she's probably been bragging a little bit about you to her friends for whatever reason. Doesn't matter really -- you could be a talentless bore with no personality whatsoever, but your mother would still find something to highlight about you that makes you seem like an amazing person.
It feels good when you find out you're not faring as bad as some of your peers. It's a guilty pleasure, but one that you relish all the same.
All the more reason why moms should not be on Facebook, Facebook!
I don't want my mom knowing that my personal life is in turmoil because of my ex girlfriend's drunken, 1 a.m. decision to change her relationship status to "it's complicated" because I reacted poorly to a surprise haircut.
I realize it made good financial sense to expand to 400 plus million users and eliminate networks, but you're just not the site I fell in love with. I'm at a point in my life where I need something new. It's not you, it's me.
I need a site that doesn't limit me to random assortment of people I happened to have met in my life -- morons included.
I've raised my standards, Facebook. I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you.
Oh, heeeeey there, Twitter.
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