I’m on it again, the Facebook, as Zuckerberg first called it, the guy who doesn’t believe in privacy. I’m here with the photos of lunch, landscapes, selfies, the everything, the nothing, on a flat screen, on a computer, on a phone, it notifies me, assures me that I’m not alone, together with all my friends, who I like. I quit it for years, hated that they tracked my clicks, that it addicted me (or I that addicted myself), that I was their free market research. But yet, I post this on Facebook, the hypocrite who wants to be noticed. My ideas or my self-promotion? We brag with our snapshots about going to Hamilton, riding on cruise ships, meeting celebrities. We want everyone to know, that we exist, have money, status, are real Americans. Compulsive clicks show we care about the environment, the presidential policies, the status of women. And we do care, we raise funds; promote books, films, cuddly cat videos. Curated, we pick the best parts, the worst parts, the wars, the almost wars. The screen is our battlefield, our competition, our attention already waning as the electronic ink disappears into the next post, the one that will mean more. But I stay on Facebook, because you’re here, we’re here, together in this internet-tethered world of distracted connected humanity across zip codes and continents.