Every morning, the alarm clock blaring as I fight a mean case of the morning confusions, I remember where I am and reluctantly face the world. With a brief stop at the coffee maker, I boot up and surrender again to technology. I check my email quickly to make sure I’m not fired (god forbid, but at least I won’t have to shower) and then – full of pathetic shame and an irresistible need to know – I lurk, coffee in hand, to Facebook.

Like coffee, Facebook is a needle-free socially acceptable habit that seems harmless. But, also like coffee, you might find yourself chain smoking at 4am, your mouse clicking aimlessly at pictures of people you hate now posing like America’s Next Top Model at parties you weren’t invited to. You make a mental note that they’re way fatter than you now and can’t spell the word “awesome,” and you pretend not to care.

Not that you hate all your Facebook “friends”, of course, as some are moderate acquaintances that you’re too shy to call or unsuccessful bar hookups who weren’t hot enough for a phone number. But I’m sure that 380 of your 400 “friends” are people that you may or may not remember from high school, who you may or may not have hooked up with at a house parties circa 2002. And that brings us to the heart of Facebook, the stalkathon.

Stop me if this sounds familiar: Though in reality estranged, you’re nonetheless Facebook “friends” with your d-bag ex (who was just so cute that few couples of times). You fight the daily status update, but usually fail. He doesn’t know this of course, as – with the exception of a casual birthday wish, which has the inflated value of absolutely nothing – your 200 visits are invisible in a true perfect crime.

Then some bitch posts on his wall. Cheeks sucked in and lips pursed, she’s all “I luv youre profile pic!!! awsom time on fri!!! x x x” and you’re all flustered and engulfed in rage. You can’t see her profile of course (damn privacy settings), but you can see her friends, and you can read her illiterate posts, and you can make up a fake Facebook account and befriend the bimbo. Just kidding…or am I?

The point I’m trying to make – if I weren’t distracted by cheating at Scrabulous at this exact moment – is that Facebook is for creeps, and thrives on making non-creepy people creepy, and creepy people even creepier. My denial and consequential deletion of daily activities is perhaps the creepiest act of all. Which is why I’m taking the first step, admitting I have a problem, and quitting Facebook cold turkey – until lunch.