Become a Facebook “friend” and disappear

I have 40 Facebook “friends.”
My Facebook is a result of a Facebook fast-one, or so I think.
An old friend invited me to be a Facebook “friend;” I got an e-mail.
“But to become a friend, you have to have a Facebook of your own.”
Well okay, I guess. It’s just an invite from an old friend, little knowing I was thereby opening up myself to a wide audience on the Internet.
“Welcome to Facebook,” another friend said.
“WHAT? What’s going on here?”
Um, well okay; I guess it’s not worth walking away from.
But I feel like I got hornswoggled.
So began Facebook; an app that locks my machine occasionally, and no longer posts my blogs (e.g. this) as working links.
Facebook suggested a slew of potential “friends,” most of whom previously worked at the Canandaigua Daily Messenger newspaper during my employ.
I retired about five years ago.
I kept getting “posts” by all these people — posts of little import, like “I just belched,” and “my back hurts.”
Finally, I “unfriended” quite a few, but I keep getting “friend” invites.
People I drove bus with, people I went to college and high-school with, old newspaper employees.
I’ve “befriended” a few, but now it’s why bother?
“Befriend” someone, and never hear from them again.
There is one I hear from a lot, but that’s only one out of 40.
There are a few others I occasionally hear from, but most have disappeared.
500 million Facebooks, or whatever it is.
How many of those millions have disappeared?
I might glance at it once a week, but I feel e-mail is much better.
Although my e-mails often go into the ozone.
I never click the Facebook ads on the right — I don’t trust ‘em. Phishing for my identity information.
And I never “like” anything. (Like some business — Facebook seems to have been taken over by business.)
And what sense does it make to be the first to “like” some screenshot I uploaded to PhotoBucket?
For cryin’ out loud, Facebook!

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. After that I worked for the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost five years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “PhotoBucket” is the image site where I post and store my picture-files.