Recently, a girl I knew from school – not a friend, you understand, just a Facebook friend – literally live-blogged her birth via an onslaught of Facebook statuses. My friends and I watched, fascinated, as she shared gory details about centimetres dilated and cramps and pessaries from her hospital bed, each status more stomach-clenching than the last. The day after the baby was born she added 238 photographs to an album in its name. One of them was a close up of the baby’s testicles. This appeared to aggravate one of her other Facebook-oversharing-friends into attacking her via Facebook, sparking a good old Facebook row (‘Ignore her hun, block & delete she’s just jealous’ – although why you would be jealous, unless you had a baby boy with no testicles, remains unexplained).
I learnt two things from this debacle; firstly that if I ever have a baby boy, I will try and look at it occasionally without the aid of a camera lens, and secondly, that Facebook is just awful these days. I have loved it and tried to keep that love alive for a very long time, but it is dying, and it’s death tolls make me sad.