Dear Facebook, I'm sorry to say it, but we need to end our courtship. This isn't fun anymore. But can we still be friends?
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My Breakup Letter to Facebook: Let’s Just Be Friends

Dear Facebook, I'm sorry to say it, but we need to end our courtship. This isn't fun anymore. But can we still be friends?

By Jennifer Hesse of Jestify

Dear Facebook:

We need to chat. Though it pains me to PM this, I have to be honest and share not just what I’m doing, but also how I’m feeling.

Something has changed between us. I’m afraid we’ve drifted apart. What started out as a beautiful partnership – you, providing such captivating connectivity, and me, supplying winsome status updates – has in the past several months deteriorated as rapidly as a bad lip reading video goes viral.

I should’ve known it would be like this – that you would disappoint me like so many doomed Pinterest projects that fail to nail their Etsy-esque glory. For so long, I resisted your charming clickbait, rejecting technological advances, embracing actual face-to-face conversations with real people instead of wishing for engagement with virtual friends. But then I moved to another state, and I got lonely, and I settled for less than the best, creating an account in hopes of finding true companionship in a pseudo-reality environment.

As I logged on like a nervous but eager Tinder swiper, I discovered the splendor of your intuitive capabilities, the allure of scrolling through friends’ highlight reels, and the seductive power of being able to connect with people near, far, and as distantly acquainted as my high school classmate’s brother’s girlfriend’s third cousin twice removed. The more I checked in, the more smitten I became, liking fan pages left and right, falling for every other listicle promoted on my feed, hooking up with various online shopping and garage sale groups.

And then you had me at mashups of live animal stunts synced to catchy pop songs.

Indeed, I became head over emoji heels for you – probably to an unhealthy degree – and remained happily infatuated for quite some time.

But late last year our relationship took a hit as your overall appearance shifted from carefree, innocuous banality into sullen, hormonal teenage-level angst. Rather than bestowing cute baby pics, inspirational quotes, and funny memes, you started spewing out spiteful screeds, fallacious “facts,” and far too many photos of scowling politicians. You suddenly went 50 shades darker than I ever planned to go on any social media platform.

What was once a sweet, surfacy, pleasant waste of time has now become an embittered, weighty, obnoxious form of torment, and I simply cannot abide this toxic liaison anymore.

I’d say it’s me and not you, but we both know that’s not true. I’m not the one posting crap about every imaginable intolerant offense being committed by and against humankind or fueling contentious comment threads.

Really, I should’ve seen this coming. There were red flags earlier on. For one thing, those blasted push notifications verged on harassment. And don’t you remember when I was struggling with infertility, and you kept battering me with pregnancy announcements, sonogram images, and monthly baby bump updates? Yeah, you were kind of a dick back then, too.

Sure, we had our share of good times – which you’ll no doubt use to lure me back through your periodic “On This Day” blasts from the past. But I’m not that naïve little networking ingénue anymore. You can’t manipulate me. I’ve grown up, opened my eyes to your wiles, realized I need to move on and move past your recent brooding moodiness. Because my likes and I are worth it.

Maybe I’ll find solace in the aesthetic arms of Instagram, or settle for a little roll in the tweets. But I refuse to rebound with Snapchat. I’m not THAT desperate.

Regardless of how I get my social groove back, it’s time to face the music. It must’ve been addiction, but it’s over now. We’ve gotta let go of all of our ghosts, know we ain’t kids no more. If you’re ready, I’m ready to accept that we are never ever getting back together. Like, ever … that is, unless Mark Z. can bring back the love and levity to my former flame.

Until then, BOY BYE.

With affection (the friend zone kind),



About the Author

Jennifer Hesse is a writer, editor, and Pinterest-failing stay-at-home mom. She gets her kicks ninja-battling with her boys, flirt-mocking with her husband, and going on OCD-inspired cleaning sprees. Catch her teasing lessons from life and faith at and on social channels Twitter: @jestifyblog, Instagram: @jenniferbrandlerhesse, and Pinterest: @junipermarie.