After you deactivate your Facebook, what do you do with yourself? This is a question I had to answer just a few weeks ago.

After I endured all of the gasps from friends on campus, I received my first text from a friend back home. From there, I was reluctantly sucked into a game of 20 questions. Did you delete your Facebook? Why? Did you save all your pictures? Were you addicted?

I laughed at this last one. Addicted? No, I wouldn’t say I was addicted. Although, how can you really believe the answer “no” when the subject is Facebook, today’s replacement for cigarettes.

If only Facebook patches existed and were sold at Walgreens, we all might survive the day without feeling a compulsive urge to like this, comment on a status, unlike that group or tag a picture of ourselves.

No, I had to do the deed without any patches or spiritual teachers by my side. To make things worse, Zuckerberg has nearly hid the “deactivate” button inside his labyrinth-filled cyber fortress.

As my anxiety level rose and sweat began to drip from my brows, I got closer to what I knew would be the end of Andrew Rawlins.

I shook off the nerves and continued to the “My Account” tab, but I quickly began to feel as though the creator himself had set his programmer attack dogs after me, throwing obstacle after obstacle at my face and showing pictures of everyone who will miss me if I decided to go.

Nevertheless, I trudged onward and finally arrived at “deactivate account.” The closer I dragged the cursor towards the button, the more fretful I became and the more I feared Facebook had laced the final page with some form of kryptonite. Feeling weaker with every passing moment, I used my last ounce of purpose and might to left click the mouse.

It was done. I stood up and immediately felt a little less important in this world, as if the Facebook molecules had been stripped from my DNA, actually making me human again.

So where do I go from here? Walk to Safeway? Nap in my dorm? Ski in Vail? How about I keep it to myself? It won’t kill me.