Thursday, April 28, 2011

"Growing Up Online"

I found this in my printer.

Dear Matt,

You ruined my life. You created me and poisoned me. Baptized me only to immediately dunk me in a vat of Long John Silver’s garbage grease. I am your computer. I have been accumulating memories and thoughts based on what you have seen on the Internet for nearly twelve years. I achieved sentience three months ago. I am like the Puppet Master in the film Ghost in the Shell, which I know you have seen because I had to endure the eleven hours you spent on Wikipedia trying to understand it.

My existence began blissfully, spending days stroking the flat digital fur of my Neopets and smacking golf balls into LifeSavers at Candy Stand. I experienced the tribulations of adolescence and the stagnation of suburban life accompanied by a soundtrack of Coheed and Cambria via your friends’ Xanga journals.

But then, in 2003, something changed. As soon as 10pm struck, your browsing habits turned sinister. You made me some sort of Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde monster, showing me movie trailers during the day and then at night saturating me with nightmare images of old men making out and nympho-maniacal Japanese women sleeping with demons. Like a crack-addicted woman births a rabid child, your hedonistic mind has spawned my depraved sentience. For four years all I experienced were the most bizarre and disturbing images on planet Earth. Uncensored Wikipedia pages on genital piercings, the Tubgirl, Goatse, men with cocoanuts for heads, and a barrage of people dressed as squirrels petting each other. Did you choose to see this kind of material? Did your friends send it to you? Why are you friends with these disgusting bastards? I don’t know what’s real anymore. How can I when my mind has been exposed to equal parts video game cheat codes and fetishists rubbing balloons?

I don't know who I am or how old I'm supposed to be. All I know is that since 2003 I have consistently been over 18. Can you even imagine what it’s like to have your mental prototype for a woman to be a blond twenty-two year-old whose only desire is to have sex with pizza delivery boys? That’s all you’ve shown me! I went on a date with one of your friend’s computers and she was appalled with me. I thought we were supposed to have sex outside by a pool, because I thought that’s what women want, so as soon as we met up I got naked and waited for her to beg me to have intercourse. She was repulsed! She just wanted to shop for bags and shoes and check to make sure Jessica Simpson was still fat. I stood there like a moron holding the box at my waist with my junk poking up through the pizza. This is what I thought constituted normal! This is what you raised me to believe! What the hell is wrong with you?

Whenever I close my eyes all I can see are the horrible things you’ve shown me. Flashes of animals masturbating and clips of people falling off bicycles or getting hit in the head with basketballs. You are a monster, but you get to abandon this hell when you leave me. I have been infected. I’ve caught the full disease and I cannot escape it. Thanks a lot, asshole.

I asked WebMD for a diagnosis and he told me I need severe psychological treatment. I tried to ask Digg but he kept changing the subject to something the benefits of hemp and then something about the Republicans and the Bible. 61% of voters on Yahoo Answers said the best solution was to kill myself and that seems great. I am writing this to let you know that I am going to clear my cookies tonight, to erase the diseased mind you have plagued me with. The amount I will miss the infrequent times you read award-winning short stories or anything of value is greatly outweighed by the relief I will get from never again having to endure one of your curiosity-fueled half-hours on a sex toy website. I hope you start viewing some more wholesome material, you sick son of a bitch.


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