I was going to tell you I got bullied into it, which is true. I was going to tell you the fact that I let myself get bullied into it is a sign of an obvious personality flaw, which is probably also true. I was going to tell you - after I logged on, spent five minutes setting up, then logged off - that I didn't see what the big hairy deal was.

That was true.

Then it wasn't.

'Cause "OMG, Benjie! Haven't seen you since the reunion. Waz up!"

Everyone I've ever met is on Facebook. I know this because Facebook tells me so, which is scary and yet useful. How does Facebook know I lived in the same dorm as Adam S.? That I shop in that independent bookstore? That I once spent an evening with a certain Facebook friend who said to me, "The really good part is when the moose is swimming." (No, we were not sober at the time.)

I'll tell you how it knows.

Facebook is stalking me. It's picking through my underwear drawer, as we speak. The lock on my diary? Broken.

I wrote more than once on this very space of my fear - nay, my loathing - of the Facebook phenomena.

I take it back. Now, I get it. It's like my Christmas card list only better. It's the new way of saying, "Hey, we never talk, but I'm still glad you're not dead or anything." I'm still in my 20s and have lived in four states since college. I can't possibly keep up. Except now maybe a little bit, I can.

Also I think you can throw a virtual sheep at someone. I like sheep.