Because it creeps me out. Okay?
As our ability to communicate has become easier, the quality of our communication has become lamer.
Here's the deal: Let's say it's 170 years ago. Let's say I live in Boston. Let's say I'm a book furrier or something. I don't know what a book furrier is, but let's both pretend it's something people did in Boston 170 years ago. Maybe it's something where a skilled craftsman uses beaver pelts to bind books. Why someone would use a beaver pelt to bind a book rather than leather I cannot say. Maybe rich people wanted it. Maybe it was a fad. Maybe in my heart I wanted to use leather, but made a lot more money by using Beaver pelts. So it's not necessarily something I liked doing, but I had to keep my customers happy. And those customer liked reading books lined with lush beaver fur. Anyway, I feel like we're getting off the topic.
So, I'm this book furrier and I live in Boston and it's 170 years ago. My good friend, Simon, who was also a book furrier, decided to leave the book furrier business (because it got to be too much for him) and move with his family to California. (I don't know what it was about being a book furrier that would have been too much for him. Maybe he just got burnt out on the whole thing. Maybe a customer wanted Simon to bind a book with a live beaver and Simon was against it. But the customer said, "I'll pay 1000 Boston Dollars if you bind a book with a live beaver." And Simon knew that 1000 dollars was a lot of money back then. So he took a live beaver and wrapped it around a book using beaver glue and gave it to the customer. The customer was delighted. But Simon would stay up nights thinking about that live beaver glued to a book put away high on a shelf in the rich customer's fancy Boston library. What did the beaver do to deserve such a thing. Glued to a book. Unable to move. Hoping someone would take it off the shelf. But these folks weren't real readers. They just liked having books to show how fancy they were. And what's fancier than a book bound with a living beaver? That poor beaver.)
So Simon headed west with his family and decided to become a gravel maker. Again, not sure what that is, but that's not the point.
So, it's 170 years ago. I live in Boston. I'm a Book Furrier. My best friend, Simon, used to be a book furrier, too, but gave up the business and moved with his family to Owen's Valley in California where he is now a gravel maker. And his wife has a wooden leg. I forgot to add that.
Anyway, this is all leading up to why I left Facebook.
It's 170 years ago. I live in Boston. I'm a book Furrier. My best friend, Simon, used to be a book furrier, too, but gave up the business and moved with his family to Owen's Valley in California where he is a now a gravel maker and his wife has a wooden leg. It's been 2 years since we've seen each other and I decide it was high time to write him a letter.
170 years ago, the postage for letters from Boston to Owen's Valley in California could cost upwards of $50,000. That was a lot of money back then. So, I'd have to make darn sure that what I wrote in my letter to Simon was worth it. Plus, letters took close to 10 years to be delivered. Not to mention another 10 years to get a reply. That's close to 20 years between correspondence. So I can pretty much guarantee that my letter to Simon would not be:
Here's a picture I took of my morning waffle.
PS. Please send this letter to as many people as you know.
No. My letter would probably have been something more like:
I hope my letter finds you well. Myrna has consumption. Doctor Harvey bled her this morning. She feels better but looks terrible. Detrimina, our youngest, still has not returned from her walk through South Boston. It has been almost six months and we are beginning to think she got lost. Three year-olds are quite a burden to one's temperament. A heavy thrashing awaits her.
Donna has an infection of some sort. No doubt Doctor Harvey will have to bleed her. I don't know what we'd do without Doctor Harvey and his bleeding tool. He is a blessing to us. I often wonder what medicine was like in the old days before bleeding was discovered. Donna can't abide leaches and monkeys give her a fright. (As you well know!) Remember that time? With the monkey? Fits of laughter still seize my rectum upon thoughts of that day!
Michael, my eldest, has expressed an interest in the book furrier trade. He is now 5 and it's about time he helped support the family. I am close to 30 and can't keep the pace I used to.
I did as you requested in your last letter. I gave the beaver water and took it off the shelf for a spell. I tend to agree with your assumption that it has been ages since anyone has read it. Mrs. Meetson allowed me to take it back to the shop for some much-needed re-gluing. How it has survived this long, I cannot say. Although a few books on the shelf nearby have been chewed through.
I have a new batch of regimental ointment. Bartholomew Cruttle impressed upon me the importance of keeping father's ointment available for those in need. I am hoping to offset the enormous costs involved in the ointment's manufacture by selling Donna.
And what of your family? How are they faring? Is it true, as we have read in the Boston papers, that there is a large man-beast known as a 'Cruddite' which roams California in a manner akin to a whale and yet is not a whale for it is on land? When I read this to the family, they recoiled in shock.
Alas, I must end for now. Ink has become scarce since John Tyler has become our president. I don't know why this is. That said, I am sure history will remember him as one of our finest presidents. I can imagine a time, 170 years hence, when all children will know John Tyler and his great deeds. All manner of honor and praise will be afforded John Tyler. His name shall be spoken at the top of the list of names that are spoken where great names are spoken.
Give my best to Cynthia and her leg.
PS. I am currently the chairman of 'Citizens of Boston For The Re-election of John Tyler'. Perhaps you would consider making a donation to this fine president. I could get him to write you a letter of thanks. Should California ever become a state, rest assured John Tyler would stomp out your horrid Cruddite problem.
I hope that all explains why I left Facebook.