Between the seemingly-poignant spam emails (the UN Security Council emailed me!) that I receive and the Facebook advertisements that glare at me while I troll the mundane daily lives of former classmates, I am convinced that the internet knows my soul.
Regularly, daily even, the virtual magical mystery machine we call the internet tries to sell me things. Things that I need, things that I cannot go without, things that will make me finally be able to embrace my soon-to-be-fulfilled American dream.
I have compiled some of these spot-on assumptions about my purchasing patterns made by the deep soul-scanning algorithms, not only to understand how the internet feels about me, but also to understand how I feel about me. There’s no better way to understand yourself than to ask a series of 1s and 0s about your likes and dislikes, your insecurities and fears, or your hopes and dreams. I would ask Siri, but she’s still pissed about me pressing the snooze button 6 times in a row this morning.
This is me, according to the internet:
· Huge on Hymenoplasty: Since moving to Montreal, Facebook’s algorithms have decided that I am a loose, single woman in need of a new and improved hymen. The ad is accompanied by a stock photo of a woman in a burqa, glaring at me with what I can only assume is a twisted combination of shame and contempt.
· Too Lax on Laxatives: In addition to a rejuvenated hymen, my bowels apparently could use a cleaning. Or I need to acquire a laxative-fueled eating disorder. This message isn’t too clear, but somehow laxatives have ended up on my weekly shopping list.
· Still Uses Western Union to Transfer Monies: Princes, Reverends, Secretaries-General, and Esquires from all corners of the world are sweetly convinced that the major banks of this world have not monopolized my ability to transfer money and that I still use Western Union. I believe this to be a judgment on my socioeconomic status of poverty, and am simultaneously offended and flattered that I am the one that they would wish to wire “secret funds” to.
While it is amazing that computers can correctly realize that I am a loose, single, and impoverished female, it is even more amazing how incorrect their assessment is of how I want to use my tiny income.
· HymeNOplasty: If I am loose, why spend time sewing myself up every time? Am I hoping that this one is THE one? Do I really want him to believe that no man has found me attractive enough to go to funkytown, or that I don’t have fingers, or that I’ve never ridden a horse? Can’t I just take a cue from Hollywood and use a ketchup packet for that virginal effect?
· Laxa-no: How will a constant stream of liquid poo make me more human? Can I not simply switch to a liquid diet, cutting out the middle man, and saving $13.49 a week? The satisfaction of a Type 3 or 4 on the Bristol Stool Scale is also being severely neglected.
· No no no: While I would love a stash of “secret funds” to be funneled into my ever-depleting bank account, the blatant disregard for English grammar rules in Sir Jon Goode’s letters to me makes me feel as though he is speaking down to me. Just because I’m poor doesn’t mean I’m stupid, it just means I have tons of student loan debt and nothing to show for my education. Except for English skills.
Laxatives and hymenoplasties don't mix,
zrox
