The fatigue has finally reached a critical mass.  I can’t do anything else on the internet.  I can’t get involved if Candyland becomes a multi-player RPG, I can’t download another program that tracks where I am right now (pushpins!) and I’m pretty sure that I’ve ruled out every fetish that can be googled.  I’m Vanilla and I’m over it.

I have a rotisserie of three user names and passwords that I rotate.  I can never remember which one I’ve used, or in which combination.  I will not switch to just one, lest another 20/20 special remind me that They Are Just Looking For A Reason.  But I’ll also be fucked if I can remember which I’ve used where.  I’m as confused as my nana in her old-people home, writing post-it notes about the expiration date of my half & half.  

“Click here if you have forgotten your password”.  It’s a weekly admission of senility.  An email quickly reminds me about the name of my first pet, a dog that I loved more than my father, who ambled strangely towards my arms after being smacked by a car, only to die seconds later.  It’s quite a bit to go through in order to remember a login.  I should switch.

And there are the sign-ups.  Sweet Jesus, they never end.   I cannot seem to get into any site that I am interested in without entering my information.   I’ve become CSI:Tom about making sure to uncheck the boxes that would sign me up for another thing that could clutter my email box.  Then, of course, the cat-and-mouse game that is authorization.  I'm forever typing in two words that would seem like drunk-vision to even an eye doctor.  “Stale Banquet”.   I feel moronic just typing the keys.  Then pavlovian-ly happy when they work.  Good boy.  Another.

Then there is the set of jerk-off of programs that become MUST DOWNLOADS for exactly nine minutes, only to litter my hard drive for its life cycle.   I’ve begun denying anything that resembles a gift on Facebook for this reason.   I don’t need a program that tells me if The Cure is playing four blocks from my bathtub – I just need one that tells me how to buy tickets without paying a service charge, and also if they will be playing songs off their dumb new record.

My online litter has turned into an offline tick.  I’ve been obsessing about getting myself off physical mailing lists since this summer.  Some junk mail is obvious in its origin – the order that I placed for Vermont Pancake Mix (shut up) has turned up catalogues for Burlington-based cheddar.  Other times, I sit in my living room wondering just how I ended up getting offers for Elle Girl.   What did I do to invite the cast of High School Musical into my home?  Is it the Showgirls box set that I ordered on Amazon?  Do they realize the irony of marketing something with such camp value prematurely?

I’ve started deleting my social network profiles.  I’ve become diligent at removing myself from bulk emails.   I’ve started yelling at those bitches who have “hooked a bro up” with their mailing list.  And I’ve started slinking into the non-sign-up corner, with the rest of you.  I know that you’re out there.  I know that you’re pissed too.   And I know that you’re waiting for the answer.   One of everything, no matter how Big Brother it gets.

Until then, we’re just going to have to remember the dog running towards us, bleeding from his mouth, then dying on our front lawn.  Weekly.  We can’t live without these tech things, no matter how we try.  Complain as we might, that's just how it is.   

Motherfuck.

“Tom Is Wishing That Bo Didn’t Die That Way”