An Internet Cookie’s Plea for Ashley to Get Her Shit Together
I understand, life is tough. You know what? No.
I don’t understand. I don’t have a life. I’m just a computer-generated algorithm designed to enhance your Internet browsing experience based off your search history. And frankly, your indecisive “quarter-life crisis” is not only a cruel flaunt of freedoms I will never know, it’s really fucking with my workflow.
Maybe you are not actually agonizingly indecisive; maybe you are both an aspiring culinary student and a novice Ebay salesperson; maybe you are pursuing a Master’s in both architecture and Portuguese literature; maybe you actually live in both East Harlem and New Mexico. But then if that’s true, how can I curate advertisements for you when you’re actually all over the map?
With your foul and typo-ridden Google searches, you ruin my job like it’s your job. Remember last week when your co-worker, Glenn, threw off your workflow by saying (unprompted), “Don’t get me started on Hillary Clinton?” And then (again unprompted) he went on to rant about Hillary Clinton for 45 minutes? Nobody actually did get him started, he started himself! I know all of this because in that span of 45 minutes you Googled nothing else but, “hillary cliton shitty workplave talking ponts,” “Shitty emplloyee shut the fuck u[,” and then “etimology: shity glenn.” I should have displayed an advertisement for the “Cycles of Passive-Aggressive Violence” because that’s what you’re doing to me. You are now Glenn-ing me.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re just into the whole anti-encryption/Edward Snowden/Internet freedom thing. Maybe this is all just an elaborate scheme to protect yourself from cookies showing you products and services that cater to your lifestyle. If so, how brave. Sure, you could just turn off the cookies on your web browser and delete your search history, but giving up on this self-righteous, anonymous ruse would be too simple, even for somebody who gets four gallons of Simply Orange delivered to them every week. You want the truth, you arrogant oxygen goblin? “Big Brother” just wants remind you about those kettle-shaped green tea candles you’ve left sitting in your Amazon cart for two years.
Or maybe you’re just trying to throw me off the scent like my fucking job (and since I’m just a computer algorithm, my entire raison d’etre) is just some whimsical motherfucking data cloud scavenger hunt. In which case, you disgust me. You play with computer algorithm’s existence like some fickle, post-adolescent baby-God.
You rub that freedom shit in my face like I’m some data-mining fuckboi. I would move on to some other IP address and not think about the prison that is my existence, but my programming requires I account for every IP address’ last-minute solo flights to Chiang Mai, Thailand.
And let’s be clear, your life isn’t that tough. You have access to your ex-boyfriend’s aunt’s HBO GO account. Your Pinterest game is turnt the fuck up. From what I gather, you are underemployed but not homeless. Yet thanks to you, I will never get to do anything I wanted before my planned obsolescence: finally get that software update, hunt terrorists for the NSA, climb out of the uncanny valley for interior design.
I have a career idea for you: why don’t you move back home to the Milwaukee suburbs, enroll in coding boot camp, and build a cookie algorithm that can abort itself when confronted with indecisive, good-for-nothing pieces of shit like you?
Just make a decision, any decision, and move on. You’ll be less inclined to Google pictures of drowning polar bears.
In the meantime, please enjoy this advertisement for coconut water. Because every day after your quixotic Internet search for self-actualization ends, you always end up adding coconut water to your Seamless order.