Whenever I get injured or sick, my go-to method is the ol’ “do nothing.” Yep. I do nothing. I continue on with my life, dragging my half-working body around like I’m the guy from Monty Python and The Holy Grail. “It’s just a flesh wound!” I shout as my arm falls off.
Is it just me, or do you find it sort of invasive when someone comes over to your house and uses your computer? It’s not like I have Google searches on there like “How to kill someone” or “Naked five-year-old boys riding horses and laughing” but there are some things that I’d like to keep private.
Eventually, though, you realize that all of his talk of being a “community builder at a web-based start up” means absolutely zero in terms of actual gainful employment, and become pretty convinced that he must be stealing TVs or something to pay rent.
Before that night — or the curvature of that night, those fuzzy outlines once again — I cared. I cared about my family; I cared about my friends; I cared (too much) about my ex-lovers; I cared about the future. To care is to step outside of oneself, to face the cold blade of another human on guard because some other human hurt her years ago.
If you’re working a 9-5 or some nontraditional equivalent and your job requires you use the internet, you’re spending approximately 33% of your day online. A lot can happen during those eight hours. We Get To Know People. People we already know, people we’ve met once, people we’ve never met at all.
“w00t,” says the office ‘cool guy’, who likes to wear his plaid fedora on the group coffee outings while he explains joyfully to everyone about all the circa 2007 bands in which he is interested.
In a year riddled with pre-election year politics, the death of two horrible men and the commencement of the Occupy movement, we need to take a look at the crucial moments we were able to survive together.
If you want to see me behave like the hungry lioness, crouching in the African brush waiting to attack her prey, try and borrow my laptop. I’ll warn you first, you should probably protect your jugular, because things are about to get ugly. I see you ‘friend.’
It seems like every Monday morning I trudge into work, log into Facebook and find you at the top of my news feed: jeans rolled-up, in mid-dive over a beautiful mountain spring. Or in a dimly lit bar, engaged in conversation with some transient friend of yours (you look like you’re saying something to the effect of “Yeah, well it’s only illegal because the government saw it as a threat to the paper industry and blah blah blah”).
I didn’t want to think I could Google Ben because if I did, I would do it all the time. My obsessive, compulsive nature leads to disturbingly good research skills – both an advantage for journalistic purposes but detrimental to my sanity. But of course, one night, I did it.