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There was also a time, I am told, when staying in touch was difficult. All my exes live online, and so do their exes, and so do their exes, too.

It’s both as thrilling and as sickening as it sounds.

My friend Anne was lying in bed with Mac, her boyfriend of six months, when an ex-boyfriend from fourteen years ago hopped into their bed.

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Cutting ties is no longer so easy—nor, I guess, do we really want it to be. The ex who appears in automated birthday reminders. Even if you only have sex once, you will spend time with your hookup when he finds you on Facebook, appears in a mutual friend’s Instagram, or texts about a weird bump he found on his penis.

We gorge ourselves on information about the lives of our exes. Older generations didn’t have a word for this kind of thing—they couldn’t have. Even casual dates have expansive biographies to plow through and life narratives you can follow for years.

I have 700 friends on Facebook, 36 of whom I consider exes. Alarmists fret that casual sex discourages intimacy. When you share your bed, your toothbrush, your sexual hang-ups, and the topography of the ­cellulite on your butt with a stranger, the intimacy is real. You are privy to information his family and friends are not; you know what he sounds like when he orgasms and when he snores.