Polly Gillespie
Facebook has put me in the pound
As of right now I’m disabled. Please don’t cue any politically incorrect comments. You may think them to yourself but don’t even begin to utter them. My Facebook has been disabled due to explicit sexual content. Excuse me?
Oh that I had explicit sexual content to post. I think I’ve been hacked. Either that or the funny pic one of my friends posted on my page while I was logged in, of a pumpkin with a willy, has had me suspended. Suspended.
Ugh, it’s like being at school. Except I was never suspended when I was at school. I don’t think I even had a detention. OK, maybe once for being part of a bread run. That’s what living in the good ol’ boarding dorms was like. We’d risk our freedom to surreptitiously buy loaves in the wee small hours, from the bread delivery man.
I’ve been suspended from Facebook and Instagram. A double whammy. I can’t even imagine what they think I’ve done. I’m trying to recall if I bared my breast, showed a picture of a semi-nude baby, or wrote some tyrannical manifesto against my own Gypsy ancestors.
Did I post explicit photos of my dodgy neighbours down the road indulging in nude sunbathing? Hardly a Wellington practice in October. Or maybe it was my stand on pro-vaccination. I have done a few of those. Not been taken off Facebook though, just trolled by nutbags from around the globe. [Assuming the globe is round.]
So I am left with no way to show my superior breakfast food choices, support mental health funding or skite about the cuteness of my little ‘‘Roseanna-bop’’ moko or my doggy Brian.
That’s really kind of my whole deal. Oh, and every now and then some slightly ‘‘offensive language’’, but hilariously funny memes. But, really, I get thrown into social no man’s land, Insta-purgatory on an otherwise ordinary October morning and I don’t know why? Great. Guess it’s Netflix sans chill.
Something I have discovered, though, is that once suspended, expelled, exterminated, disabled... [Terrible term. Almost as bad as dis-established] one cannot actually reach a live human to ask questions or even weep for forgiveness down the phone.
Emails have a no-reply as the only option and, if you ask any questions you get a list of FAQs, which is about as helpful as lace gloves in a f...... snowstorm. They are like the IRS in the United States. There is no way of finding them or corresponding with them, despite the fact that they know everything about me and have all my picture memories tucked away somewhere in Northern California.
I believe their address, if I want to turn up there, is 1 Facebook Way. I can imagine it probably guarded by a moat of hitmen, three Russian poison dart specialists and 80 Chinese military tanks.
It’s like I’m in Star Wars’ Rebel Alliance – only just one of the guys in the background that gets killed by the stormtroopers, and Facebook is The Death Star. The Death Star doesn’t take emails or have to explain why I’ve been ‘‘disestablished’’, be it only for 30 days. This must be like ending up in a Thai prison for having a backpack that smells like weed. Actually, I’m sure it’s nothing like that, but I’m pissed.
They’re probably reading this and I’ll now have to go to solitary for an extra week. Facebook has put me in the pound.
[If you know any real human that works at Facebook would you please ask them to reestablish me please? Thanks so much.]
Signed, The Prisoner in cell #7823455672.
But, really, I get thrown into social no man’s land, Instapurgatory on an otherwise ordinary October morning and I don’t know why?