Are We Asking To Be Stalked?

Despite a world in which anything is possible, sometimes I get bored with it all. Sometimes Mythbusters isn’t on the Discovery Channel. Sometimes Top Gear isn’t on Dave. Sometimes over 200 channels of globally available cable television isn’t enough.

It is in these moments that we must turn to the more macabre methods of self-amusement. It is then that we must undertake a solitary hobby. A hobby that requires the participation of two, but only the application and awareness of one.

I am of course talking about – stalking.

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Facebook Ultimatums

Facebook, first you insult my levels of social aptitude by implying I’m lonely, and now you’re offering me ultimatums?!? Well guess what, I don’t play by the rules. I don’t even know the rules. I don’t even know what game we’re playing.

Facebook has formed a barrier between me and internet freedom. Standing betwixt me and every climax, preventing my perusal of every punch line, restraining my attempted ascent to the summit of every internet witticism, is the same thing.

Facebook is holding content ransom. The price? A like.

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Facebook Thinks I’m Lonely

Time works differently for technological advancement. It’s like dog years. A hundred tech years ago machines were only capable of performing singular demands. Since then our programming capabilities and electrical engineering has become increasingly complex, to the stage where not only can machines perform a selection of separate actions, they can adjust their actions according to input and environment.

Gymnasium equipment and machinery can measure our heartbeat and performance and adjust the difficulty of our training accordingly. My Macbook Pro has sensors that detect light and adjust the brightness of my screen accordingly.

And now, through the wonder of modern technology our computers can diagnose depression. Galactic sophistication has allowed my keyboard to secretly collect minuscule secretions from my fingertips as I type, measure my serotonin levels and calculate my social stimulation. Then, after mere seconds of scientific testing a conclusion is reached. My diagnosis is in. Ladies and gentlemen:

Facebook thinks I’m lonely.

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Virtually Documented Popularity

Cameras. Camaraderie.

I hate it. I hate pictures.

I hate smiling. I hate you.

When exactly did social documentation become a legal obligation? Why does every creature with opposable thumbs and access to a camera feel a contractual commitment to chronicle every aspect of every social event in a catalogue of depressing images? Why are there hundreds of pictures of my stupefied face plastered carelessly along the fractured walls of the internet, none of which I endorsed, wanted, or even knew about until I was tagged in them several weeks after said social event took place? Why?! Answer me!

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HMS HORSEBOX

After an inconvenient delay which the British people utilised to have a good ol’ moan, I am aboard. That’s right.

Fuck land.

I’m on a boat.

Motherfucker.

But I wasn’t always this enthusiastic. Far from it. I used to be terrified of this very situation. Floating precariously on perilous waters, aboard a huge, metal death-box. At age 10, as far as I was concerned I’d be extremely lucky to make it across the sea alive. In my mind, the chances of the ferry sinking like a dead stone to the bottom of the Irish Sea were highly likely.

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