Kill Your Online Self

I just found out about the Suicide Machine, a delightful service that helps a person delete their online self. So if you have accounts on Facebook, LinkedIn, MySpace, and Twitter, the suicide machine will delete them, and do it in a way that erases all the data. How enchanting! It makes me want to create a new identity and move it around like a pawn on Facebook. Maybe I will choose to be a violinist who lives in Paris. I will name her Mlle. Belletienere.

She will be a great romantic. I will find a suitable portrait shot for her in the classifieds section of a weekly newspaper. I’m picturing her as a willowy brunette who usually wears black. Belletienere will be kind, witty and beautiful. Her grasp of English will be adorably shaky. She will have an identical twin who is not online. Her birthday will be January 1 and her relationship status will read “Tell me yours first.” She’ll always be reading the books that everyone wishes they were reading. She will start with Balzac.

Balletienere will make friends online and play farming games into the wee hours of the morning. And then years later, when she has lots and lots of friends, and even more farm animals, she will find that it has all become too much and after countless weeks spent in despair, she will decide on a quick, automated death. She will wonder if she did the right thing as she watches the suicide machine unfriend her entire contact list, delete her uploaded photos, erase her wall posts, and then axe her account. Afterwards, it will be as if she never existed. And I will be free of Mlle. Belletienere! But in my heart, I will always miss her. I am crying already.

web 2.0 suicide machine promotion from moddr_ on Vimeo.

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The flying monkeys let our technician out for a minute and he snuck away into the light of day. Thanks for your patience during this difficult transition.
I ated Tinkerbell.

Fhtagn Spoken Here.

... the attic, a vast raftered length lighted only by small blinking windows in the gable ends, and filled with a massed wreckage of chests, chairs, and spinning-wheels which infinite years of deposit had shrouded and festooned into monstrous and hellish shapes.
The Shunned House
H.P. Lovecraft




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