‘Here’s a photo of some grapes. I’m sharing it to raise awareness of cancer, so please share it with everyone so that we can all be aware of cancer. I know that there is no direct link between these small fruits and the deadly disease without a general cure that comes in a wide variety of forms, but cancer. Come on people. xxxxxx TIA.’
Please have a word with yourself. I am already aware of cancer, thank you very much.
My awareness of cancer increases every time a photo of some poor child is shared on Facebook by their parents who are sick with worry but cling on to every little positive bit of news as it provides them with a shred of hope.
My awareness of cancer increases every time I read a story about someone who has managed to raise a huge amount of money so that they can travel abroad to have pioneering life saving treatment, funded by the incredible generosity of the general public.
My awareness of cancer increases every time I read about the best friend of a little cancer patient who has shaved his own head in solidarity with his chum who is going through gruelling bouts of chemotherapy and radiotherapy.
My awareness of cancer increases whenever I am presented with a Facebook post that is actually about fucking cancer.
So why oh why do some people share the most ridiculously waffly thundershite purely to get some likes and clicks for ‘cancer awareness’ when it is about as relevant to cancer as printing ‘Shaniqwa’s Nail and Beauty Tips’ in the Financial Fucking Times.
Just when you think that this complete bollocks couldn’t get any worse, you then get the same morons issuing you with an incredibly stern threat.
‘Woteva you do, DO NOT share this by clicking on share you mindless fucking idiots. Copy and paste it to your own timeline.’
What would happen if I click on ‘Share,’ as intended by Facebook when they went and created a fucking button called ‘Share?’
Would the overall awareness of cancer suffer at all?
The ‘pièce de resistance’ of mindless cancer awareness social media hunnery? That priceless moment when this ambiguous crap is accompanied by the girly-wirly, ‘Don’t tell the men what this means. Leave them guessing. It will be a real giggle hunny wunny woo-woos! xoxoxoxoxoxo (fifteen emojis).’
Would it really upset you ladies if I told you that I really couldn’t give a flying fuck about the true meaning of a satsuma carefully placed on top of a pile of laundry?
Anyway that’s enough. I’m off to expand my cancer-related horizons through the medium of photographing a packet of Spearmint Polos.