fakecreations

sharp memory talks

(I wrote this over a month ago. It was sitting here as a draft until I remembered about it today. I don’t even use the service no more. I hope it’s not a shitty post.)

So I’ve registered into one of those dating websites. Not necessarily for dating, but to meet new people in general. But what I’ve seen there is… well, where to start?

Here’s what I can only assume, based on profile information and pictures, is the regular pattern for users of these websites.

You register in a night where you probably been crying, again. You’re all out of the Haggen-Dazs tub you ate while watching a sappy Hugh Grant movie and decide to grab the bottle of pre-made mojitos. You’d booty call your ex, but your best friend deleted the number from your phone long ago.

In a drunken stupor, you search for the website where your friend said she met her boyfriend “and it was totally cool”. It all seems so weird, but the last time you had sex, you’re pretty sure there were dinosaurs around. You NEED this.

For a profile picture you choose the photo of your last family vacations, badly cropped to show only yourself. You think you look pretty good in this beach, not realizing you’re the only person there wearing a shirt — the same one that you swam in. You add a couple of more images with friends, because you don’t want to be seen as the sort of person who’s a shut-in. Your description does not fail to mention what a unique person you are, who likes eclectic things like the beach, or going out with said friends.

You add everyone you know on the service, spamming all your contacts in the process, and start clicking furiously in profiles. Ten minutes into your online dating experience and not a single person wants to meet you. You cry yourself to sleep because you’re going to die alone, sad and with lots of cats.

—- 

The next day you wake up with drool on your keyboard. You look up and there were several dozen of visits to your profile. Overjoyed you get ready and go to work. “This thing might just work” you think. What you don’t realise is that the effects of the alcohol have not yet completely worn off.

By the time you get home the visitor count has gone up, plus you have a couple of messages. All from douchebags, but you think that the nice people will send you messages soon. You feed it some more images —where it’s hard to see even where you are, much less your features.

This cycle repeats for days. Maybe weeks. The nice people never come. You either meet a douchebag or you don’t. Either way turns out really shitty. And go on, watching Hugh Grant, having tubs of ice cream. Because in the end, you belive you’re better off without anyone. Except on the nights you cry yourself to sleep, vibrator shoved halfway up your ass.

(Stole some parts shamelessly from RJ. Thanks bro.)

Goodbye old friend

First they came for Wave,
and I didn’t speak out because I didn’t use it.

Then they came for Buzz, 
and I didn’t speak out because I didn’t use it.

Then they came for Labs, 
and I didn’t speak out because I didn’t use it.

Then they came for Reader, 
and now, there’s no one to speak out for it.

—-

Acording to Google itself,

Since 24 September 2009 you have read a total of 300,000+ items.

Apparently that wasn’t enough. And now Google Reader is going away. I even liked your crappy Android app, because it was just simple. And now you go and break my heart and shake my trust in you.

You’re not failing me bro. You’ve failed me already.

to those stuck in caskets

Dear society,

You suck. You’re upset because god knows why, and the answer you find apropriate is to be sad. Like being sad about anything has ever made it better.

No, I mean it. There’s like a handfull of you that deserve to be sad. People with actual problems. But the rest of you? Suck it up Sally.

It’s not like bringing everyone down with your ridiculous reasons for sadness will improve anything. Get out, put a goddamn smile on your face and deal with it. Report back when that dumb little head of yours realizes I’m right.

In the meantime, fuck you very much,
Sylver