Hot Lazarus

I am affronted. Seldom do such archaic, righteous-sounding words pass my plump, over-active lips. I am more than affronted. I am incandescent. My dead facebook profile has been digitally raped. Not only has what remains of my cyber corpse been dug up, dark arts have been employed in an attempt to resurrect it. That evil trader in virtual body parts Mark Zuckerberg has furnished a ghastly set of people based in New Zealand or thereabouts with the key to my sarcophagus. A league of wicked sorcerers called The Profile Engine. How you might well ask, did I happen upon this horrifying discovery? Being of a paranoid disposition I do at intervals Google myself {about once a week}. Ever since I deleted my facebook account on August 25 2011 I have been secretly anticipating this day. One of the reasons I left was because of a deep rooted mistrust of Zuckerberg and his ilk. Confronted with my half recovered profile I felt simultaneously violated and vindicated. I was as thorough as I could be {spent about 4hrs deleting photos and data} yet they still managed to find 26 of my erstwhile Facebook friends along with numerous links and likes. They ask you to sign in and claim the profile in order to delete it. I will not. I know better. What they have now is a carcass, sure there may be DNA but there is no life about it. What they have is my past life. To initiate further contact or furnish them with any more information would be to give them a window on my present. Which I certainly have no desire to do. What am I worried about then? That those ghoulish Frankenstein motherfuckers are going to run enough volts through my digital doppelganger to give it life. Independent life. That the angry revenant will wander abroad in search of the creator who abandoned it, seeking to destroy my future. That my profile will become sentient a la Daniel Feeld's preserved head {brilliantly characterised by Albert Finney} in Dennis Potter's Cold Lazarus. One imagines a dystopian future when the Internet will be peopled by the shades of our aborted brainchildren. Mark Zuckerberg allows people to digitally fist-fuck your dead eidolon. To ram their clawed {from excessive typing, gaming and wanking} hands straight up your arse, through your liquefying guts, into your mute, dead mouth and engage in a macabre puppet show. So I've fallen prey to the Facebook body snatchers. Read my epitaph: Fuck You!