To log in, or not to log in: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of flame wars and political diatribe,
Or to take arms against a life without pokes and likes and LOLCats,
And by opposing end them? To log off: to delete the account;
No more; and by a log off to say we go “off the grid”
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That social media is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To log off, to delete;
To delete: perchance to interact physically: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of online death what real experiences may come
When we have shuffled off this network coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so pervasive connectedness;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of Facebook updates,
The flamer’s wrath, the arrogant partisan’s contumely,
The pangs of despised friend requests, the network’s lag time,
The insolence of viruses and phishing and the spam
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare cutting of the wire? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a media saturated life,
But that the dread of something after disconnect,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller reboots, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of pixel resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of digital friendships,
And status updates and tweets of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. – Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my posts remember’d.
