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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.

“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.

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.

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