Between the Crackberry, the FaceCrack, and my innate tendency toward self-obsession, whatever was left of my attention span has gone the way of Pantene's old formula. Now my hair is frizzy, some CEO just got a bonus, and I can't turn on the computer without suddenly finding myself staring at the wedding album of some white, educated, hippy looking people I've never met (the cousin of the wife of a guy I went to high school with...?) All I know is that they had a lovely ceremony in some wooded forest (Yosemite?) and served what looked like some pretty kick ass organic carrot cake. Meanwhile, my life goes by...enough with the voyeuristic lurking into other people's wooded forest weddings.

Just for today, I need to stay focused on...

A friend of mine recently told me about a situation that could only emerge in a post-Facebook climate. Her 7th Grade Crush contacted her one night via the chat feature (another scary thing, but that's another blog) and they shared a redemptive moment in which they both confessed their mutually unexpressed pre-pubescent feelings. It might have been sweet, but then the guy went all Steve Buscemi on her and started writing in all caps about how he would NOT GO THROUGH THAT KIND OF PAIN AGAIN. After some polite, conciliatory exchanges she got off the chat and quickly de-friended her 7th grade amour.

Damn. Reality. In a zeitgeist of compulsive connection, the importance of un-networking yourself can get lost.

One night I discovered that My 7th Grade Crush is in jail for murder. However, according to his page (from which I gathered this info), his brother is responsible. (As if that's supposed to make me feel better). I also happen to have known the brother. My best friend kissed him. Yes, these were heady days. And while my 7th Grade BFF and I both now share the clarity of where our 7th grade passions would have led us, the question remains: Where the hell were our parents?!

So, as it turned out, my First Love Partner In Make-Out Session was/is what you might call a disreputable sort (scary gangster thug). His reputation is the stuff rap songs are made of. Word on the street is that he worked his way through "bitches" and "hoes," destroyed lives, property, acquired a decent collection of tats, and ultimately proved that the penal system, while imperfect, can be sensible. Ok, so he's not exactly Facebook friend material. I hate to say it, but I thought about.

"No, you are not friending him," said my 7th Grade BFF (as well as her Husband who also happens to be my friend from 7th grade).

No, I'm not trying to reconcile an old love. But imagine the statuses...

Just for today, I have boundaries.

Sometimes, in the blur and rush of perusing my chaotic Facebook newsfeed (which, thanks to some odd choices in user experience design resembles the digital equivalent of the Tea Cup ride at Disneyland), I will find myself free associating various status updates with the wrong friend (not the status-er).

For instance, I'm friends with rap artist Lyrics Born (we went to King Junior High school together). I'm also friends with an Animal Intuitive Healer who goes by the name of Indigo Rhythms. Recently, I confused her status with Lyrics Born's identity and, for a split second, believed that my rap artist friend had become an animal psychic. (For some reason, this seemed perfectly feasible).

This happens at least once a day. Who is having a baby?...a wedding?...barbecue?...promoting a one woman show....working with whales at Sea World?

Is it a good thing that all my connections in the world speak to me from the same web page? Or will this make me crazy(er).

Just for today, I see the end of Facebook.