Pfffft, they don’t care about me

I have a strange relationship with Facebook these days.

I don’t really use it to stay in the loop on what my friends are up to, instead it’s become my middle-aged woman version of being obsessed with true crime podcasts. I’ve massaged my algorithm to focus on the fall of democracy in the land of the tangerine tyrant.

I find it oddly compelling to doom scroll the latest horror stories before bed, then wake and check what I missed overnight.

Although things took a disturbing turn this morning when I discovered moves to invoke the Insurrection Act and deploy troops, which commentators suggest could be the first step toward martial law and the suspension of elections. Scary.

Fortunately, I’ve also skewed the algorithm to posts about Italian greyhounds in cute outfits by falling in love with Trevor the Iggy.

So it’s not all horror and gloom.

But Facebook likes to throw me every now and again by chucking “memories” into the mix.

These are not my favourite.

This was yesterday’s …

Rubbish, Facebook, you don’t care about me.

The photo was taken on our last holiday as a family, which looked lovely in the pics but was pretty hollow in reality.

My husband was barely speaking to me at that point as the wheels rapidly fell off our relationship.

A month later he told me he was leaving and the world ended as we knew it.

The kids were devastated. I still feel terrible about that. Even though it wasn’t my decision to break up, I contributed to the demise of our relationship with my disengagement.

Those Facebook memories must rattle a lot of people by reminding them of what they’ve lost.

Fortunately I am a loooong way down the track of never ever wanting to get back together.

And I’m counting down the hours to the weekend. Woo-hoo! Have a good one, see you next week.

Song of the day: Taylor Swift “We are never ever getting back together”