In-Dependence Day
July 4th, 2015

What's the use?

You love and love and love and the data collectors watch and watch and watch...

They log. Your every move, your every click. They see you see the pictures of your
once upon a time love and keep bringing it back to you in different ways, trying to tell
you what you want, like you don't know. They are convinced that they know what you
want from your online digital footprint. But does where you go really define who you
are? Do the places you visit online reflect who you are?

To a degree, they are right, I suppose.

But, all in all what do they know? They are just an algorithm conceived from no
breakups. No heartbreaks. No racial tensions. They are as innocent and as arrogant as
children can be at their worst.

What if, say I'm going back to a certain place, looking up a certain image of someone
from my past in an attempt to investigate what I no longer feel? In an attempt to ask
myself what on earth I saw in that smile? In that carefree character? In a caress that
was devoid of judgement that it singes in my mind without leaving a trace of its emotion
that narcotized me. Can an algorithm make sense of that distinction?

Maybe in the future. But not now.

Now, all it knows is that I be looking up a certain profile and therefore deducts that I
must mean I like that person! So clearly, it will repeatedly bring her up, as often as
possible, whatever it takes to get me to engage. Provoke me to stretch my fingers into
the past and click on an action to bring her into the present because ultimately...

I am merely an unharvested click.

Nothing. I feel nothing.

Nothing? I feel nothing? I don't get it. I was head over hills. I was beyond consolable.
And yet, I now look at the face of the person that elicited this emotion and... nothing.

Absolutely, nothing.

I don't get it. And neither do you stupid algorithm! But at least you don't purport to do
so I guess that's alright.

It's alright 'cause he looks good. She looks happy, that's what's important.

Love. Oh Love you are a perversion of decency.

Drunk I was on Love's potion so now I opt for the next best thing. Why not? I'm not
above it. Grant's Scotch Whisky; patiently crafted for a rich, smooth and complex
signature style.

The good thing is you like seeing her picture so as much as you're at odds with The
Algorithm, you're really not. You click on her profile, see her latest pictures and then
casually hover over the friend request button as if you don't see it.

Request? How can you request when something far more intimate, far more valuable
had already been exchanged? How can you pretend to not be familiar when you've
practically invented the word together?

It's okay though, it's alright. Because you enjoy seeing her picture. You see her trying to
fit in, undercutting (what you assume to be) her strength. You photoshop yourself
momentarily into her life whispering into her ear to awaken her, if possible, to the rarity
that is her; to awaken her to the gem that is her presence in this world.

But you remember you're too self-involved and therefore dismiss her as you once did
when she was actually in your life.

You dismiss her as nonchalantly as you fatally did to your relationship.

Pathetic.

It's alright though, cause you have The Algo-rhythm - it's looking to tango, it's looking
to salsa with you and you willfully accept because your capital punishment has already
come and gone. What have you got to lose?

Nothing.

You are nothing.

But it's alright. No need to be a drama queen.

Just look at her profile and enjoy her smile that you're trying really hard not to judge
'cause you've seen her more natural smile, her more powerful one, the one that arrested
you to say or do the things that you did.

Thank God for the internet though. Thank God for You yahoo server somewhere in
California, fanning yourself alone in a cold room on some floor while the whole world
spoons the most beautiful girl in the known universe. Thank God for you because
without you, I wouldn't have some algorithm poorly attempting to keep me company
with the image of the person that once...

Whatever.