Blabberings

I consider myself fairly level headed . . . 

. . . not too savvy; not too behind-the-times . . .

. . . not too quick tempered; not too mild mannered . . .

. . . not too knee-jerky; not too pokey . . . .

Though I walk fast and talk fast, I’m more of a tortoise than a hare. (But a tortoise who comes in 2^nd or 3^rd place. I’m not going to win the race.)

I’m a medium-type American 70s girl, who wanted Billy to not be a hero, wished the Rambling Boy would settle down, and hoped the Little Girl did not go away. I eat too many French fries, choose shoes that are 49% pretty/51% comfortable, and need a new bra. I mostly shun Change, but I allowed my older girlfriends to talk me into bolder lipstick, even though I rarely tote a pocketbook and don’t reapply.

So, how come I’m the boring-est person ever to be banned from Facebook? How come I’m doing the time, if I didn’t do the crime? Well, lean in closer, and I’ll tell you.

Beguiled. Bamboozled. Hoodwinked.

“Please don’t throw me in that briar patch!” Brer Rabbit outwitted Brer Fox and Brer Bear. 

My Brer Rabbit said, “Your Facebook account has been disabled due to security reasons. To unlock it, review your account here: (insert phony link). Facebook Team”

Oh, Hindsight! Where were you?! You slay me now!

My yelp scares my children more than a speeding, lane-invading car. I’m certain they cried more as little kids over my reactionary “OH NO!” from their stumbles than they ever did over the bloody knees.  

My immediate response to the faux Facebook Team message was a similar overprotective “OH NO!” And I clicked.

Hooked. Lined. Sinkered. 

I know. You’d have known better. I should have known better. I do know better. And yet, I gave my password to Brer Rabbit. I threw him in the briar patch. 

On the night of March 2, 2017, the Facebook profile known as Celeste King Conner shut down and went to bed. The next morning, it had ceased to exist. All traces of Celeste King Conner had been erased from Facebook. If you searched for it with your whole heart, you could not find it.

The American Red Cross hates me for spending a semester in England in the 80s. Facebook hates me for momentary gullibility. I believe both to be sins of O-mission rather than CO-mission, as the preacher says. Sins, nevertheless, I reckon.

On March 3, the real Facebook Team emailed and asked me to upload a form of identification with my name, birth date, and face, so they could prove I’m really me.

Check.

“Don’t call us; we’ll call you.”

There is no way to contact Facebook, so I waited. My friend has a friend who works for Facebook (my friend-in-law?). He submitted two requests for me, whatever that means. I waited some more. After a couple of weeks, I had actually detoxed from Facebook, when I began receiving texts and emails: “Are you okay? You’ve taken yourself off Facebook” and “Have I offended you? You unfriended me.”

Yes.

No.

I had another email address, so Celestia Joy King Conner sent friend requests to the friends of the former Celeste King Conner, who didn’t want to accept them, because they assumed she was hacked and that the account was phony. Lawdy, friendship is complicated.

I don’t have an end to the story. I suppose Mr. Zuckerberg has a few security risks greater than a chatty mama in Lower Alabama, at risk for Mad Cow Disease, who wants access to her photos, words, and virtual memories back.  

I don’t have a moral to the story either, except, I guess, “Don’t be stupid,” but sometimes we just are.

I raise my battle cry: #freeCelesteKingConner!

I solemnly swear to pester Mr. Zuckerberg for the rest of my life: #freeCelesteKingConner!

With my last breath I’ll rattle #freeCelesteKingConner!

Mr. Zuckerberg is younger and smarter, healthier and wealthier than I am. But, by golly, I am more annoying than he is.

#freeCelesteKingConner!