We can debate all day about the unintended consequences of Facebook.
It has amplified cyberbullying, created a disturbing acronym (FOMO for Fear Of Missing Out), served as a launching pad for "fake news" and distributed our personal data to unsavory corporations.
Despite all of that, it holds a special place in my life. It's allowed me to connect with old friends in ways I never could have imagined, and one of the most meaningful connections involved an old high school friend - Leggie McJones, alias Andrea Warhol.
Neither of those are her real names, but she indeed was leggy and she did indeed appreciate art in all its forms. I'm not sure where I ranked among her friends, maybe No. 43, but she made it a point to have only 50 on Facebook. Fifty! The pseudonyms helped her be discreet.
She honored me by allowing me in.
For nearly 10 years, we commented on each other's posts, and shared long direct messages about race, religion and life. Although 3,000 miles separated us - she lived in Portland, Ore. - we found common ground in our perspectives on politics, music and, believe it or not, Good Hair, Chris Rock's 2009 documentary on the importance of hair in the African-American culture.
We mused over the segments about "creamy crack" and weaves, and as a white woman, she learned a little while conceding she's long fussed over her own long hair, which dropped nearly to her waist, joking that it required as much attention as a pet and often drew the attention of Portlanders.
"People go gaga over it," she wrote. "Complete strangers remark on it. I brush it and wash it and have it groomed. I use expensive shampoo and conditioner, but that's my only real indulgence regarding it, I think. I remember in high school, though, when a 'bad hair' day was enough to make me want to hide in shame."
After awhile, all things Portland - a city she absolutely loved - led me to think about her. I remember asking her about the Portland Trailblazers - she was far from a sports fan - and trying to explain why the NBA team's favorite expression was "Rip City."
She extolled the virtues of Portland's Voodoo Doughnuts, her love of winter in the Pacific Northwest and how she longed to go to grad school at the University of Hawaii.
So many of the exchanges ended with kind words from her. She was genuine and generous in her praise. Remarkably, Facebook drew us closer than we ever were at Amos P. Godby High School in Tallahassee, because we weren't that close in high school.
But it didn't draw us too close.
She would hint at struggling through her high school years, not having fond memories of our native Tallahassee and being way too shy to come to one of our reunions. Normally, my journalistic instincts would have led me to ask probing questions, but I never wanted to intrude. A part of me appreciated the mystery of her past.
We promised each other we would some day get together and share stories about our lives over drinks. We would talk about writing - she published a novelette - reflect on our respective relationships and recall those days working on the high school newspaper together.
And we would talk about her ongoing cancer challenges. But we never got the chance.
Remarkably, however, she remained frank and upbeat about her struggles. She wrote, more on her blog than on Facebook, about the various treatments and drugs. She crafted a poignant piece about losing all her beloved hair and having only a "rat tail" that she needed to hide under a cap.
Someone recently told me if you find joy after a cancer diagnosis and inspire others, you beat cancer. Teresa, that's her real name, did just that.
In one of her last blogs, she wrote that she worried about checking into the hospital and never getting to go back home.
And then a few days later, she made one final post on Facebook about hospice intake. I thought there would be another. One more message reflecting her indefatigable spirit, one more uplifting missive offering a farewell.
It never came.
It all left me angry. Angry, again, at the same disease that took my mother. Angry I never got a chance to really say goodbye - even though I could have never found the words. Angry at how much I will miss her posts.
So selfish.
Her closest friends embraced the unselfish reality. They were glad her suffering had come to an end. They celebrated her rare and wonderful personality. They provided assurances, as one so eloquently wrote, that she had stepped into the truth and that her true nature is timeless awareness.
Still, I wish they had Facebook in heaven.
That's all I'm saying.