Fakebook Read Online Free PDF Page A

like I was at the center of one of those philosophy questions about perception. How do I know China exists if I’ve never been there? People have told me it exists, and I’ve seen pictures—but I’ve simply taken it on faith. In my own world, China isn’t a place; it’s simply a composite of secondhand knowledge. My Facebook friends had no idea that the version of me they saw wasn’t me anymore.
    I was greeted at my desk by a blinking light on my office phone. As my computer powered up, I took a deep breath and checked Facebook on my phone.
    In the handful of minutes since I’d posted the photo of my apartment, I’d gotten three new likes and one new comment. I’d also received a personal message:
    Anne DuMont → Dave Cicirelli
    Subject: Good Luck
    Hi Dave. All I can say is wow.
    I totally understand how it is to be stuck in a rut and it seems like life is just passing you by. I want you to know if you need any support I am here, and I mean if you need a ride, new shoes, food, money, MapQuest research…anything. I have family and friends all over Pennsylvania and Ohio. Let me know if they can be of help on your travels. Maybe I can visit and bring you whatever you need. I hope you got yourself some decent walking shoes, keep hydrated, rest when you need to, and write everything down. Wish you the best on this journey and that it may be awesome and safe.
    I know you don’t know me that well but honestly I really want to help.
    Huh.
    I’d planned on creating something harmless—something that, at most, would poke fun at the superficiality Facebook encouraged. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might also exploit people’s longings and elicit their empathy and support. I wasn’t really prepared for that, and I wasn’t ready to confront it. So I ignored it and put my phone away.
    When I opened my inbox I saw a dozen emails from coworkers, all with subject lines to the tune of “WTF?”
    Crap. I really hadn’t thought this through. I immediately started typing an all-staff email, one that would explain, in as professional a way as possible, that my employment was now a secret.

    A few days later, my computer screen caught the eye of another customer at the coffee shop.
    Both the girl and the Cake Shop reflected the atmosphere of the Lower East Side—curated grit. That’s not to say either lacked authenticity, just that there was obviously a fair amount of deliberation behind how they presented themselves—unpretentious, if not a little too hip. It was definitely a contrast to the Starbucks-like “business casual” ensemble I was still sporting from my work day.
    â€œCan I ask,” she said, flipping back her long black bangs with a tattooed arm (in a way that was totally working for me), “what you’re doing?”
    I should have been able to answer her, but instead I gave her a blank stare. In the week since Fakebook started, I’d had plenty of practice explaining myself at work, but the reactions always threw me for a loop. Some people, like Joe, got it and loved it. To others, the idea of willfully detonating my own reputation was mystifying. It wore me out, like rolling the dice every time I answered.
    I looked down at my table, suddenly self-conscious of my weekly planner with scribbled in plot points, all corresponding to a Google Maps printout, and the laptop screen split between Photoshop and a five-day forecast. One of the ironies of pretending to live as a bohemian, I’d quickly learned, was all the planning it required.
    Overall, the week had been an emotional roller coaster. I was shell-shocked by the genuine support I was receiving from Fakebook’s unwitting audience, and Anne’s note was only the beginning. My Facebook inbox filled up with notes I couldn’t even bring myself to read—messages with subject lines like “You’re So Brave” and “Thank You.”
    I