Philadelphia Weekly

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I never much believed in chain letters as a kid. In the age before reciprocal voyeurism and plugged-in home offices, it seemed tedious and wasteful to hand-copy and address notes about luck, love and death. I never believed I'd be cursed with a dateless prom if I failed to pass on the correspondence, and I never believed I'd get $100 in return for my single crumpled bill. It seemed unkind, too, to burden my friends with the weight of potentially breaking the chain. Who wants that kind of responsibility on her prepubescent shoulders?

So I hated chain letters. I'd get them in the mail from pen pals and find them in my cubbyhole from classmates, and I'd self-righteously toss them with the reassurance that, phew, I was above such brainless, self-indulgent malarkey.

Then chain letters became interactive in a way that transcended copying and pasting, that went beyond dancing babies, $200 Neiman Marcus Cookie Recipes and cautionary tales of drunk driving and computer viruses. Chain letters became a way to tell stories. And I became hooked. With lengthy biographical surveys passed through email and MySpace bulletins I learned that I like to talk about myself. A lot. (Imagine that. A columnist who enjoys talking about herself. Uncanny.)

And with this current, unavoidable, "25 Things About Me" Facebook meme, I'm learning that my friends like to talk about themselves a lot, too. The New York Times reports that nearly five million notes--many, if not most, of which are "25 Things" lists--have been created on Facebook this past week, and that this number is double the previous week's and larger than any other single week in the history of the 5-year-old social network's existence.

So why are people posting these lists? Why do we feel it's necessary to share with our buddies that we're lactose intolerant, failed gym in high school, heart kitties, drink a pot of coffee a day, sometimes miss cable TV, find mayonnaise unpalatable, like to do handstands and voted for Nader in 2000 (none of which are my "Things," by the way)? Because we're narcissists. All of us. And that's okay. That's how people connect. We talk about ourselves. We share stories about our pasts, we admit the somewhat endearing flaws in our presents, and we reveal our hopes and dreams for our futures.

We cultivate personas on Tumblr and Twitter and Facebook that are in line with how we're known in "real life," but just a little more forthcoming and sexy and sweetly cynical than how we present ourselves at the office or the gym or the bar. We say the things to our friends online in list-form that we sometimes forget to say, or are too timid or ashamed or distracted to say, in the busyness of our everyday. We confide our fears on Facebook, and idiosyncrasies that strike us as somewhat scandalous, and the things only our mothers and significant others know about us because it doesn't feel right to share these things while watching the Super Bowl, or in the line at the movie theater or checking out the latest local band that doesn't blow. Those are the times when we talk pleasantries--where we want to go on vacation, whether or not we have plans for brunch, if this week's Flight of the Conchords was funnier than last week's. We have a few select friends to whom we reveal everything, and many to whom we reveal only the illusion of anything.

I'm the first to admit that I'm horrible at asking questions. I automatically assume, and wrongly so, that everyone is as chatty and ingenuous as I am. I assume that if someone has something they'd like divulge, they'll tell without me having to ask. I don't like to pry. It feels invasive, and I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. But I'm learning, through reading friends' "25 Things," just how little I know about some of them. How was I unaware of a brother's death, a mother's sickness, a divorce, an accident, a childhood in gymnastics, a shared love of James Spader?

I know it sounds cheesy--okay, okay, beyond cheesy--but maybe this "25 Things" trend could teach us something. Maybe we don't ask enough questions of our friends or demand enough answers. Maybe we ask the wrong kinds of questions. Maybe we shouldn't have to wait for a Facebook meme to reveal how much we have in common and how much we have yet to learn. It's cheesy, yes, but maybe this viral narcissism is productive in creating something other than just a culture of self-obsessed surveillance. Maybe it's creating better friends.