"Look at that!" she says. "He's really creepy."
Naturally, she confirmed the request.
Characterizing Facebook forwardness as creepy or merely friendly depends not only on the style of the approach but also on whether you're the one being forward. Doman and roommate Karla Lazo have both been offended by overly persistent members of the GW community, and Lazo likes to say that the Facebook can be a "weapon" in the hands of someone annoying. But Doman has also enjoyed a flattering instant message exchange with a nice stranger. They have both contacted boys whose profiles they found appealing, and in Doman's case, that has led to some romance. Doman's rule is that to approach a person, you must be connected to them through someone or something, if only tangentially.
"You don't contact someone who's really hot and you don't have anything in common with," she says.
The trust that GW students place in the Facebook -- they have their full names and e-mail addresses in their profiles, and many list instant-message screen names and even cell phone numbers -- is possible because their online community is closed to outsiders. It's free but you must have a school e-mail address to register, and when you do, you get access only to the profiles of others in your school. Faculty, staff, alumni and graduate students also have access, but they tend not to use the Facebook in the overwhelming numbers that undergraduates do. At GW, which has about 10,600 undergrads and 12,400 grad students, there are 8,520 registered users, according to one of Facebook's founders. (They hope the Web site will turn a profit sometime soon through the fees they charge for corporate ads and student announcements. Meanwhile, they have competition from similar Web sites.)
The Facebook has a way of taking over a school's culture. Students talk about checking their accounts four or five times a day, not only to research people but also to read private messages others have sent them through the Facebook network and to read comments others have scrawled on their virtual "walls." ("MEATWAD WAS HERE.") They talk about their morning ritual: wake up, go to the bathroom, check e-mail, check the Facebook. They talk about the Facebook's inexorable pull -- even for those who don't join.
"A lot of my church friends seem to be against Facebook," says Joe Karlya, a junior (favorite books: "the Bible," "The Image of Righteousness"). "My really good friend Tyler is against it, but every time he's over he has me sign into my account and he browses."
Students recognize that the Facebook can be a kind of end in itself, that it can create what one student calls "Facebook relationships," which exist only online. Doman, who majors in sociology and communications and says she looks at "everything from a relational aspect," labels the Facebook "communication lean." It's all a little fake -- the "friends"; the profiles that can be tailored to what others find appealing; the "groups" that exist only in cyberspace. Doman's other roommate, Sarah Schafer, tried to join a group devoted to the "25 Hottest Girls" at GW. Some groups are open to everyone, but with other groups, you have to be approved to get in.
"I didn't get in," Shafer says. She consoles herself with the thought that the founder probably lets in only friends.
The television is tuned to MTV's "Room Raiders," but no one is watching. The roommates are deep into their individual computers, scrolling through more photographs of GW students.
"She's pretty," Schafer says.
"I facebooked this one guy," Doman says. They'd never met. He sent her a message: "Who are you?" She sent him a message back: "We thought you were hot."
She turns serious.
"You know, the more I'm talking to you, the more I'm disgusted with myself," she says. "This is an addiction."
"And a weapon," Lazo says soberly.
They don't look too upset.
