It happened long ago. I was still young. At the time, I had a scooter-like motorbike I used to cross the Karoo, listening to my iPod. The earphones were pressed hard against my skull underneath the helmet, but I didn't care. It was 2009 - the "aughts". Heady times.
Riding through the semi-arid landscape, I felt the urge to tweet to the world that I was riding a motorbike and listening to music at the same time. I stopped and did so. The response to my tweet and my response to the response to my tweet, wasn't great. I quit Twitter and vowed never to return.
After years of therapy and "desensitising" (a technique employed by health professionals whereby a trauma victim is taken back to the scene of the trauma to process the event), I'd come to see the incident in context and went back onto Twitter.
Things had changed. People who had 2,000 followers when I left suddenly had 20,000. The little blue badges of verification had multiplied exponentially. It seemed the whole world had become celebrities or at least raised their personal lives to the level where every living, breathing moment of it was of interest to the public.
The playing field had changed and, looking back, I should have realised the new parameters called for a brand-new round of desensitising. But it was Twitter and my profile was looking really good, so I threw my hat in the ring with a tweet reading "If I take a friend to the voting station, can I double-cross someone?" hoping clever wordplay might get me off to a running start. It didn't.
My therapist and I have since decided I should stick to Facebook and only post when I'm with him in his consultation room. The arrangement worked OK, but I stopped posting altogether when my therapy stopped, even though he encouraged me to "go out there and engage the platform".