february 1998 net worth by Kathleen Chiavetta |
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That Bitch, The Internet
When I learned that my current boyfriend was a Webmaster - which
I soon discovered meant he basically spent a lot of time on the
Web - my first thoughts revolved around the potential. He was a
smart guy, with a reliable job and dreamed the impossible dream - a
twenty-something that didn't still sleep on his mother's couch while
she cooked for him and washed his shorts. Little did I know, this
"Internet" he spoke so smartly of would come to manifest itself into
a raving, jealous she-beast commanding most of his attention, and
smirking at me, the fending-for-herself girlfriend, behind his back.
It came as a surprise when, less than a year later, I was plotting to
break his computer, banish Bill Gates from the country, and halt the
advancement of technology in order to get some special alone time with said
"catch."
It started when I realized he worked extremely insane hours:
late at night, on the weekends. I quickly learned that this was
apropos for people in the hip, up-and-coming world of web-based media,
and forgave him when he didn't call. This was all acceptable; we lived
in two different cities, 400 miles away from each other. He stayed at
work so long because he had no one to come home to. I never gave a
second thought to the possibility that anyone or anything else could
be occupying his attentions.
Later he started e-mailing me these 'funny' little clips from articles
much like this one, on computer freaks, cyber geeks, and everything in
between--people who couldn’t be torn away from their machines for days
on end--and we'd laugh at the similarities. Then slowly my giggles
and guffaws turned to halting nervous laughter, wondering if this man
hadn't indeed been the very model for these articles.
His job rules his life, definitely if or when any eating or sleeping
will occur. He is lucky enough to have coincidentally picked an
apartment mere steps away from Microsoft's NYC HQ. He can see the building
on the way to the train, the diner, the market, and it's right next to
the movies. His eyes glaze over as he stares up at it, and
occasionally he drools or knocks down old ladies and small children by
not watching where he's going.
Computers also tend to rule his use of language. He can relate
anything to them and can even use little words like "hard drive" in
normal, everyday conversation (usually referring to any body part
involved in sexual activity, or the sex drive itself). He and his
friends make robot noises and repeat the word download when
they’re playing on the Net or taking in and processing any sort of
information. I’m surrounded by little words like Byte, Software,
and Interactive, that are plastered all over the covers of his
magazines. When we have sex, it's called "Naked Time", which you will
notice conveniently shortens to "NT," as in Windows. It scares me more than it scares you.
He finds the whole thing fascinating, some sick science project.
A girl of mere soft flesh and bone has difficulty competing with an intricate machine comprised of gaggles of complex circuitry, lightning speed, and the
inability to groan "Not again - will you go to sleep already? I'm
exhausted!" This computer obeys his every command and
depends upon *his* guidance to operate - he has to tell it what to
do. He's sick with the power. I don't have to tell you he'll
never get to play that game with this girl, believe you me.
He has become too dependent on his computer.
Information is so easily accessible (and apparently a lot more fun to
get) through a few clicks of the mouse, that his brain forgets how to
"access" itself. The only way I can even attempt to get him to
remember anything (birthday, flight arrival time, major surgery) is to
e-mail it to him. Even then it has to be concise and to the point or
he won't even read the whole thing, much less let it register in the
database that his brain has become.
At first, I thought it sick using the source of my
frustrations to communicate with him, relying on e-mail like some
virtual electronic whore to dole out and take credit for what I
thoughtfully put together. I’ve since realized that I'm the
smart one, using this medium to help me, instead of letting it work
against me. I limit my e-mails so that each one stands out from the
hundreds of others he receives each day. And if I really want to
speak to him personally, I just send him an e-mail loaded with sexual
innuendo and he calls that night. With a little
practice, I might even be able to craft a six word Pavlovian message
that inexplicably causes him to show up on my doorstep with flowers,
Chinese food, and that half-gallon of milk I've been meaning to pick
up from the store.
Now you may be asking, "Hey Kath. If this guy's such
an ass pain, why do you stay with him?" Well kids, I've asked
myself that same question, and my initial response was "Beats me," but even though tech-obsessives like my boy's are easily
absorbed in their own world, you can learn a thing or
two from them when they remember to communicate out loud. It's
also sweet that when they bubble about their technological
accomplishments, they can't wait to bubble about them with the one
person they haven't alienated. Plus they’re really good at fixing stuff.
For now I'll just have to cope with the fact that my boyfriend gets
paid an obscene amount of money to play games all day and then to
buckle down at 10pm when his playmates start to go home to their
families/girlfriends/pets. Eventually one of several things will
happen. We may even reach a balance between woman and machine. I will stop seeing the Internet as "the other woman," and he'll start seeing me as
one, and the computer (or "it" as I affectionately refer to the bitch)
as just a tool. Or David may end up a lonely, lonely old man with
just his computer and lots and lots of money to keep him company. If I play my cards right and don't end up in a maximum security
prison, I'll get lucky, the Internet will crash, and we can finally
spend that week of quality time in Tahiti he's been promising.
back to the junk drawer
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