Facebook Tragedies!

Without wishing to seem callous or anything,  I noticed with interest  that there were two ‘Facebook’  suicides reported in Metro last week, in which there was a perceived contrast between the number of ‘Friends’ these poor people had and their apparent despair. One of them even waved goodbye, cruel world as a newsfeed. Is the incredible irony of them being called the same thing while being entirely different just too alluring for the falsely naive world of lazy journalism?

I should point out here, in case it isn’t already entirely obvious, that I am not an enthusiastic facebooker, for in fact many reasons :

I simply can’t be bothered : I am the sort of person who, while doing something exciting and theoretically facebook worthy, can’t be bothered to find my camera and present myself as someone doing something exciting and facebook worthy. I can’t even be bothered to have a suitably technological phone that I can just whip out to snap my every movement. Although my friends are aware that I am currently planning to acquire a smart phone, I am wasting time actually knitting a cosy for it that I can velcro to my clothing. I have seen too many of these things smashed with one tiny little drop on the floor, to feel entirely secure in my purchase yet. I will post the pattern on my facebook page, though,  when I have worked it out. So the world can benefit.

I am just not that competitive : Facebook keeps informing my three ‘friends’ that my ‘progress is poor’, and strangely, instead of finding it invigorating and challenging, it’s a little demotivating. In fact, there’s even a part of me that is finding being crap on Facebook a kind of success. Ha!

There are quite a lot (maybe even many) people that I have known in my life, that I do not have any urge to be in contact with, and I was quite glad when I thought they had *gone*.  Although maybe, given the opportunity, I might make them sit through a slide show of my holiday photos, or my gallery of me looking unrealistically gorgeous, or in fact tweet them every time a thought comes into my head. If, as I say, I could be bothered.

Maybe I am just too old not to be freaked out by all this interest in other people’s lives. For example : I decided to follow people on Twitter (it was after my friend saw Ben Fogle on the underground, (bit of a guilty pleasure of mine, that, posh fools…) and I googled him and found out from Twitter that it was his son Ludo’s first trip on the tube : WooHoo) and so then I started following Stephen Fry (Maybe I just got a thing for Posh Blerks?) who has nothing interesting or amusing to say at any point (sorry Stephen , if you are reading this, and why would you not be, after all?) and who then apparently, started following me! Well that really freaked me out : why the hell would Stephen Fry, with his lovely boyfriend Daniel (according to Wikipedia), his house in Norfolk, and his lovely careers, in telly and writing, his friendships with the global great and good of entertainment, be so hard up for human contact that he would follow fffrrrfff@twitter.com? Really, I don’t get it.


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