We’ve been together for a long time. I remember you before you were a verb (when used with an object), when you were nothing more than an Ask Jeeves alternative. Sure it’s been on-and-off. I know you’ve had (many) other women, and I’ve tried several other search engines, but in the end, we always came back to each other because it was only when we delved into the world of online intrigue that we truly felt lucky.
You’ve been like a third parent to me. Slipping information I didn’t ask for into the answers I was seeking. Excusing my distracted behavior because you knew what was really going on behind my related searches. Directing strangers to my blog who couldn’t possibly have been looking for it, like the guy searching for “shorts with balls hanging out” or the individual who needed to know “Tom Hanks, how long he pees.” Imagine their surprise when they landed on my site? And my surprise when they returned?
We were allies. I disappeared into your web of information when my kids overwhelmed me, and you comforted me with about 30,800,000 results (in 0.22 seconds).You didn’t judge me for creating absolute truth from information gleaned on pages 1 and 2. Instead, you lifted my spirits and helped me spend money. You kept me abreast of news after it broke, but before CNN could puree it into my vegetables. You saved all of my emails when no one else cared, and still my mailbox was only 46% full. If my husband knew how many words I’ve hoarded in your infinite space, he’d probably find a way to put me on his show.
I mean, really. Was it necessary to use this as the image people see when they plug in my address? You can’t possibly expect me to believe that you and your friends just happened to be photographing my street on the *one* day in 2009 when I cleaned my car. How long did you camp out in front of my house, waiting until I looked my absolute worst? You’re not fooling anyone with that blur on my face, either. Like someone else would just randomly stop on my street and vacuum my car for me. Look at my hair. My old shirt (that I still have). No wonder my search pages have been filled with ads for PacSun and Charlotte Russe.
My friends are telling me I should break up with you. Or rat you out to your parents, demanding they take this photo down. But I won’t. I’m an adult. I can take it. But for the sake of what we once were, and for all the hours we’ll spend together in the future, please let me know the next time you’re in town. I have just enough pride left to go away. Far away. For as long as it takes.
PS: I will ask that you take down part of my street view, though. You posted my daughter on it. I’m okay calling her out in public when she’s whining and following me around. But you may not. She’s my daughter, not yours. And you didn’t ask my permission. Blurring her face does not make it okay. She was 4. Take it down.