Soapbox: I’m Sick Of Online Stalking

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I’m waving the white flag here, Universe; I’m officially burnt out on Internet stalking my crushes. I’m sure his Facebook Timeline is gonna to be bitchin’, but I just can’t summon it in me to give a crap about his pictures, videos, and/or status updates. Sorry, boys!
Part of the problem is that I’m too lazy to fully immerse myself in a moderately attractive, semi-stranger’s whereabouts. I can barely keep up with this season of “Breaking Bad,” much less some guy’s scattered Internet presence. Just the idea of tracking down all of his projects online is making me yawn. Who has time for that?

No one is more shocked than me that this is the case. I used to find Internet stalking a thrill. I’d take it as a personal challenge to uncover as much dirt on a new dude as possible. Google was the Watson to my Sherlock Holmes and we were a great team.

“Google, tell me what you know on this young man,” I’d inquire.

“It says right here on this poorly designed web page that his radio show in college was called ‘Long Hair, Don’t Care,’ sir.”

“Thanks, Google, my dear boy.” I’m also picturing myself puffing away on a pipe as this exchange took place. (Is this what happens in Sherlock Holmes? I feel like there’s a pipe involved.)

This knowledge of his college radio show’s name was the Werther’s Original candy of information; it only took a second to acquire, but I was going to carry it around for a long ass time before unwrapping it.

I would be terrified of somehow accidentally blurting out that I knew what his college radio show’s name was, because then I’d have to confess to stalking him online. I’d find a way to ask about it sometime during our third date. “So, did you have a radio show in college or anything? What was it called?”

When he tells me the name of his show, I’d have to pretend that I’d never heard of it before which would require an Oscar-worthy performance on my part. And, I’m a terrible actress!

“Long Hair, Don’t Care. That’s a funny name,” I’d say. “Did you play heavy metal or prog rock?” I’d monitor his face. Did I convince him that this information was new to my brain? Did my eyebrows knit in a reasonable way, showing him that I didn’t already know these answers?  What should I do with my hands? Are my lips too tight? I should probably relax them. How do I relax my lips? I’m not equipped with this skill set!

See? Internet stalking is stressful!

Now if I really like I guy, I don’t want to know anything about him. All I need to know is if he’s available to date; that’s it. What can I say? I don’t want to ruin it. I don’t want to see pictures of him wearing a goofy Sailor Moon outfit in Google Image Search. I don’t to click through a billion pictures of him kissing his ex on his Facebook page. I don’t want to see him tweet at Starbucks that he liked their Frappy Hour promotion. Taken together, these words and images ultimately distract me from my main goal: getting to know him better.

Besides, there’s no mystery to seeing his life laid out before me like a book report. I want to connect with a real person here, not an avatar. So, I’m taking a step back, putting down my cape and magnifying glass, and letting him reveal what he wants to reveal to me in his own time. It’s best for all involved.

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