SWF, computer widow, ISO fellow Luddite for conversation IRL

I fancy myself a Neo-Luddite. I don’t like new technologies. They bore me, and I think that our society’s increasing reliance on computers and its obsession with cyber-networking is making us a stupid bunch of loners. We are becoming a race of pasty, antisocial, uncultured dipshits. We think it’s perfectly acceptable to speak wholly in acronyms and emoticons. We think LOL Cats are clever. It’s beyond pathetic. 

Ironically, then, I find myself in a relationship with an alpha computer geek. Picture Boo Radley with a MacBook permanently attached to his lap. Even though we’re shacking up together, I cannot remember the last time the two of us had a face-to-face conversation. If I want to get his attention, it’s often more efficacious to IM him than to call out across the living room and hope he looks up from the hypnotic glow of his Apple Mistress. 

I’ve tried confronting him about his computer addiction, but he’s usually too busy Twittering or reading his RSS feed to listen. I intimated on several occasions that, if Apple engineers ever figure out a way to install a vagina port on their laptops, he will never again have use for a carbon-based girlfriend. He didn’t deny that this would be the case.

Now, I’ve dated coke-heads, potheads, and alcoholics before, but none of those addictions seemed as severe and devastating as this boy’s computer addiction. I mean, even through their substance-induced hazes, my ex-boyfriends still managed to communicate with me in person. Sure, their words were slurred and incoherent, but at least they made an effort.

I am officially a computer widow. My boyfriend is only alive in a technical and physiological sense. Emotionally and mentally, he died long ago. Probably around the time Apple released Mac OS X v10.2. Since then, he has become a husk of a person, just a human-shaped vessel to house Apple minutiae.

And just in case he ever finds this blog, reads it, and demands answers, I suppose I should explain myself:

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You’d be bitter too if you looked like Bruce Vilanch

People often wonder why I’m so bitter. Nothing horribly perverse or tragic has ever happened to me. Growing up, my parents never locked me in a Pet Taxi and fed me taquitos through the grate. No, the answer is a bit simpler. To all those nosy optimists that insist on telling me to buck up and be grateful, I say this:

You’d be bitter too if you looked like Bruce Vilanch with smaller tits. Yeah, let that mental image fester for a moment. A female Bruce Vilanch. A bulbous, wattle-centric androgyne with an all-too-vast collection of novelty t-shirts. If you’re not shuddering at the thought, you’re dead inside. Or maybe it’s been too long since you’ve Google image searched Mr. Vilanch.

Regardless, the world is a cruel and lonely place for young women that resemble popular patter-writer Bruce Vilanch. Gentlemen callers are few and far between. Children instinctively know to tremble. Blogs are written with undue gravitas and use of passive voice. In short, it’s a nightmare.

But, perhaps the most agonizing aspect of looking like Bruce Vilanch: Whoopi Goldberg’s never-ending barrage of phone calls asking you to be Center Square.

The horror, the horror.

Pizza Hut gave me food poisoning. Allegedly.

Since I intend to keep this blog completely anonymous, I have no shame in saying that I have had explosive, frothy diarrhea for the past 8 days thanks to my neighborhood Pizza Hut. Not only is this disgusting and inconvenient, I suspect it’s only a matter of time before I die from dehydration to boot. I suppose it would be fitting, really, to die as I lived–full of shit–but I shan’t meet my maker without first warning others of the vile pizza beast that hath rendered my bowels so spasmy and full of liquid poo.

Now, I can’t say with certainty whether it was the Cheese Lover’s Pizza, breadsticks, salad bar, or waitress’s unfriendly demeanor that did the deed, but it was definitely the Hut that allegedly gave me the shits. I should have known better than to eat there once I saw a pile of half eaten chicken wings on the floor beneath my booth. Hindsight is 20/20, as the old saw goes. Unfortunately for my hind, however, this revelation is too little, too late. 

 

I hate blogs, but I love hypocrisy

I hate blogs, bloggers, and blog-readers. I really do. The “blogosphere,” as virginal nerds are keen to call it, is populated with talentless, voyeuristic, self-indulgent doofuses that take advantage of the internet’s accessibility to spew forth a maelstrom of pseudo-intellectualism, overly personal biography, and hollow opinion.

To 99% of bloggers, I would like to say:

I do not care what you think. I do not care what you had for lunch or what you just downloaded on your iPod. Your political opinions mean nothing to me. Your taste in music and movies is appalling. The latest photo you uploaded of yourself drunk at a club is embarrassing. I don’t give two shits about why your girlfriend broke up with you.

You are not a talented writer. Whatever shithole public university granted you an English degree ought to lose its accreditation. You are not witty, insightful, or clever. You won’t make any money doing this, nor will you achieve any sort of fame. If you use one more emoticon, I will shrink myself down, crawl through your DSL cable, and punch you in the face. Kindly, shut the hell up.

Yet, here I sit blogging. Fortunately for me, I’m already filled with self-loathing, so this blatant act of hypocrisy won’t weigh very heavily on my conscience.