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Mark Zuckerberg and I were friends. Good friends. So good that I was part of his entourage. Sometimes I was his entourage.
I followed him during the day as he went about his business at Facebook. I spent evenings at home with him and his wife.
I knew he was having a hard time lately, what with these Congressional hearings and all. I did my best to be extra supportive. I told him he did a great job. I said this would all blow over eventually. I promised everything would be okay.
But the truth was, I didn't even like Mark Zuckerberg. I felt that he'd embarrassed himself in front of the Senate's Commerce and Judiciary Committees. I knew everyone was laughing at him behind his back. I believed he was a hypocrite. I even thought he looked old.
Gone was the young and idealistic Mark Zuckerberg. Gone was the prickly but still visionary titan of The Social Network. In their place was this Mark Zuckerberg: rich beyond belief but empty inside, so corrupt and craven you could see it just by looking at him.
But I kept my mouth shut. Being Mark Zuckerberg's friend was a pretty cushy job. I didn't know where I'd find another as good.
Every day, I worried that he'd somehow find out what I really thought, how I really felt. Because he owned Facebook. He knew almost everything there was to know about me.
Sooner or later, his algorithms would alert him to who and what I really was. It was only a matter of time. And then what would I do?