During Christmas vacation of 2003 I was chatting with a college friend on AOL Instant Messenger (AIM).  In his profile, he had a link that said “Facebook me!” in bright blue letters.  I was intrigued and soon found myself engrossed in this single page cache of information.  This “Facebook” was an network exclusive to college students.  Soon I had my page up and running. By the end of the week, I had ten friends and we made cool comments on each others walls.  By the end of Spring semester, I had 139 friends and was hot stuff.  I not only passed by these friends in the quad on the way to class but I had actually spoken with them.  Not like some people who had low social networking moral.  Fast forward nine years.  I hovered around the 740 mark when it came to friends.  My block list topped a smug 72.  I was a temperamental Facebook user, playing by three old rules from college days.

1) No boobs in the profile picture- it makes you look desperate.

2) No talking about religion or discussing politics.  People started breaking that rule in 2005 when high schoolers, home schoolers, and >30s were allowed.  As soon as I broke the rule, I regretted it.

3) Don’t pay too much attention to a person unless you truly are best buds- it makes you look like a creepy stalker.

Unwritten rules and history aside, Facebook became the bane of my existence.  I could not portray who I really was without someone trying to censor me.  Heaven forbid I write something tongue-in-cheek or miss-word something. Ultimately, I was pushed into writing cute little kid anecdotes. How sweet…  Not really.  Not really sweet when I have a son who is a bullheaded, pain-immune, one-track-minded sweetheart.  If I wrote a fraction of the things he really did, the Men In Black would be at my doorstep.  My son is definitely the kind of rarity who would be recruited to wear the black glasses.  That being said, let me introduce Agent J and Agent K.

Agent J is five years old.  He believes he is 45. This evening he was adamant about using the lawnmower to cut the weeds and destroy some freshly rebuilt ant nests.  A few weeks ago, he tried to take my new car to “pick up supplies to build a tree house and buy some groceries…  Probably some peaches,” he said.

Agent K is almost four months old.  He has more gas than your Grandmother’s propane tank.  He could provide enough fuel to light a lighthouse.  That is, if his smile doesn’t blind everyone first.  He has no teeth, but he beams anyway.  He loves Agent J and British Masterpiece Theatre.  Interpersonal communication is his *thing.*

Agents J and K report directly to me, and sometimes, The Boss.  The Boss is a fleeting figure, who only appears at night and disappears before sunrise.  Some think he is a superhero, but he is actually a part of something much greater.  He likes cars and hugs.

I could stop there, but I must introduce a background player, Agent L.  He is black with a giant head.  If he really likes you, he might show you the white spot on his chest.  He’s pretty much a bodyguard/enforcer type, and works for food and lodging.   Occasionally, he makes his way into my bed when The Boss is gone.

Upon leaving Facebook, I took on a new identity.  I am Agent C.  There is no need to know more.