THE internet is designed to make things simpler, but in doing so it's created an entire new hunting ground of pitfalls, pratfalls and faux pas.

Facebook has layered an extra strata of social angst to life by decreeing that profile holders may designate a "legacy contact," who'll be allowed to "pin a post on your Timeline" after you die.

So, if you snuff off, they'll be able to post one final statement from you. Facebook suggests a funeral announcement.

Your legacy contact will not be able to read your private messages or log in as you but they will be able to respond to new friends requests and change your profile and cover photos, as a sort of digital tombstone.

"We hope this work will help people experience loss with a greater sense of possibility, comfort and support," the company says. Possibility? Possibility for what? Stymieing the bereaved's chances of moving on by allowing them to keep a digital ghost of their lost one?

I foresee problems.

Choosing one legacy contact (apparently you can also name a digital heir in your will. That's what we've come to, humanity). This has potential to be a social minefield. Facebook suggests you tell the person. Don't. Gifting your afterlife to one person is a fantastic snub to everyone else you know. This is more important than choosing the person you have children with. You can children with more than one person, you can have only one digital heir.

One person. Your eternal memory. Choose wisely.

Not to mention, your legacy contact is allowed to choose your pictures. The one lovely thing about an online persona is the ability to edit it to your exact liking. Double chins - begone! Have you not chosen wisely, your final Facebook picture, the one that your great-great-great grand children will see when they Google you during an idle moment in their driverless teleporter, will be that time in Magaluf, in a vest top and ill-fitting bikini bottoms with a Sex on the Beach in one hand and Brendan from Shitterton in the other.

A Twitter app already exists for something similar, the company making it claiming: "God doesn't exist, servers do." The app uses an algorithm to map your likes and interests then tweets on after your death, pretending to be you.

That sort of thing really takes the pressure off. The computer does all the work.

Facebook, however, is asking for you to write the final status update of your life. That's a truly tough demand. Your last words, available at the click of a button, for eternity.

Or, if you don't want to name a legacy contact, you can just have your account deleted. Where do I sign?