Stripped

Today, like every other day of my life, I stumbled to the kitchen for a cup o’ Joe so I could regain my eyesite, snatched up my laptop and climbed back in bed.  It’s still early, mind you, lest I give the impression I spend my entire day in bed.

Coffee and computer. My two most cherished “C” words.

E-mail came first.  Not much to report except that you can still buy Viagra for super, super cheap from that Canadian on-line pharmacy…and oh, yeah,… those hideous Jimmy Choos are now down to $27.50  from some discounter who refuses to stop stalking me. Nevermind that they really ARE hideous and they’re a size 18.

Off to check in with my Writer’s Workshop to see what’s cookin’ in the minds of my fellow scribes.

Open Safari….

Up pops Google which is my browser.  (Is that the right term? I think so.)

The article that caught my eye on the news feed thingy (probably NOT the right term) was:

“Google Knows Too Much About You.”

Of course I clicked on it because I’ve been seeing all those touchy-feeling messages from Google about how their new privacy policy is “beautiful” and “simplistic” and aren’t you all going to accept these lovely words….smoking us like a swarm of angry bees…eyelids growing heavy as we drift off to the land of…..

“Holy shit”, I say as I shake the images of candy cane trees and rivers of honey out of my noggin.

Yeah. They know everything about you.  Every fucking thing.

And God love ’em.  They reminded me that I’m overdue for my bi-yearly dental check-up and since I’m now 50?  I really need to schedule that colonoscopy and just to be really, really safe even though I do resistance training on a regular basis with kettle bells and pilates, probably a bone density test as well.

Gosh!  Thanks for putting in the time to know me so well, Google!  I feel really, really special now. It only cost me every ounce of privacy I have left in this double-edged-cyber-freak-show we live in.

….as she signs off of her blog, powered by the Internet, searchable on Google, the information she used to get here lovingly stored and preserved for future use in selling her a product or service of some sort.

She says to herself “What a clever blog! I feel like a hypocrit but whatever. It’s all harmless fun.”

She doesn’t believe her own words. Doubt clouds her face like she’s searching for a vague just-out-of-reach memory.

And realization hits her. Her face falls. Her fingers fly up to her Google search history.

Ruh roh.