I don’t give a rat’s ass if Facebook accesses everything there is to know about me, and there are shitty things to know about me. But, I don’t care if they see who I call, when I call, what I say, what I watch on TV, what I buy, what political party I favor, who I like, who I hate, how old I am, where I live, what I eat when I’m depressed, what I eat when I’m happy, how much alcohol I drink, what my shoe size is, what my bra size is, how much I weigh, who my doctor is, what medications I take, etc etc etc. I don’t care. Cambridge Analytica, go ahead, I dare you. Toss me news about Michelle Obama being a man in disguise, the Pope presiding over child sacrifices at the Vatican, Vladimir Putin sending a drone to my house but not making it because Donald Trump zapped it with a BB gun. Bring it on. I’m going to read your stuff with my brain engaged. I’m going to go to Reuters, API, New York Times and search the facts. I’m not going to buy something I don’t want no matter how much your promise me that it will make me look 20 and feel 18. I’m not going to vote for someone based on what you say. I am a responsible adult who thinks critically and isn’t swayed by your idiot stories. I may buy something really dumb but I’m aware that it’s dumb. I may want it anyway. Like when that gadget company sold me a mosquito killing drone for $8. I knew it probably wouldn’t work but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I’ll return it if it doesn’t work. Or I’ll keep it on my desk as a reminder that if you think something is not going to work then it probably won’t and you shouldn’t buy it. Just don’t call my cell phone with a deal to buy Bitcoin. That’s all I ask. That’s not much, is it? Otherwise, I’m going to like away, look at your advertisements that have even an infinitesimal application to me, take funny tests (but not allow the test company to access my friends list or post on FB for me). Yeah, I’m going to live on the wild side. I’ve survived bigger adventures than you, Facebook. You too Google. And you too Cambridge Analytica. Oh, an hi there, Rebecca Mercer. I’m not your girl. And I may tweet that to you.