Everyone in this photo will one day die (photo by
Adam Fagen)
Look, one day you're going to die. Contorted inside an industrial fan. Struck by a light bulb. Peacefully asleep after an unprecedented masturbation. It doesn't really matter how you die. Your veins will shrink into your flesh. New growths will grow inside your head, neck, and lungs. You're going to die. Your muscles will... creak and fall apart. Your bones will start to grind and turn to dust. You're dying. You're dying right now. You're going to die.
Anyway: Facebook knows this, and that's why it's introducing a new tool to help users manage their accounts after death. As The
Next Web , the new "Your Legacy Contact" tool will let you designate a friend who will take control of your account if you pass away. That person will be able to pin a final message to your home page, notify your friends about the funeral, and update your profile to be more serious and appropriate.
The profile picture is the most important thing of all. I have a nagging feeling that I might one day be murdered—my limbs in a trash can, my head at the bottom of a lake, my torso fed to dogs, or something—and I worry about which photo of me will be used on the news, as part of a manhunt with torches and dogs to find what's left of my genitals. I'm afraid it'll be the one of me being too young, scarred by acne, my hair is shit, and I'm toasting beer in the shower at some house party. Maybe it's the one of me face down on the floor after being hit in the balls with a wooden bat. Or maybe it's the one of me dressed as a Nintendo character in some awful club, looking like I just realized I shitted on myself. There are no decent, respectable photographs of my existence. That's what I fear more than the inevitability of death.
Last summer we had to open Mom's laptop—thankfully she was still logged in—and post "Hi everyone, although it's a bit cheesy" about her condition—then petition Facebook to digitally bury her account. It was a strange thing to deal with during an already strange and grieving time, but imagine what would have happened if she had Twitter or Instagram or a network of weird racist friends she had met commenting on YouTube videos. All of those accounts would have to be shut down and immortalized. Her online friends would have to be notified. The internet makes dying increasingly complicated.
I guess this is a sign that Facebook is growing. Eight years ago it was a platform where exuberant youth could share photos of themselves on their night out. Then it became the place where you could announce your first stupid little relationship and your even stupider breakup. It has hosted every party you've been to for the past five years. It knows your friends' birthdays and your own, the important events for you better than you do. Facebook has grown with us—holding our hands, sending us Farmville invites, letting us update our status with something like "I just lost my phone. Send me your phone numbers"—and now it's studying the question of death. I'm not saying that Facebook literally wants us to die, but Facebook has certainly undergone a transformation and is now truly death-aware, in that panicky, sweat-inducing way.
Facebook , "Dude, I love you. I know I don't say it enough, but, dude, just don't forget that I love you. Because one day we're all going to die and I don't want you to die not knowing that I love you." Facebook says, "Do you want to play Candy Crush right now?"
Creating “Your Legacy Contact” is probably a more important decision than the emergency contact you add to your employment contract. Maybe even more so than choosing a best man or maid of honor at your wedding. You die at work and you just need the most responsible member of your family to put your bloated corpse in a coffin. But your Facebook page? You need someone to “Like” every compassionate message. Someone who knows which Instagram selfie you look best in. Someone to hide all those photos of you from parties where you fainted and had your ass out. Essentially, the Legacy Contact’s role is largely that of an editor: to filter out all the bad parts of your life and embellish and enhance the good like a painting.
Anyway, you'll be fine. You still have plenty of time. You'll live forever. But for the rest of us—all of us doomed with invisible timers above our heads counting down to death—Legacy Contact is a harsh reminder that the Facebook party is over and that our youth is but a fleeting memory, and that we also need to start making responsible friends before the end inevitably comes.
