I Love Google.

I love Google. I love it and use it a million times a day. I don't care if they are trying to take over the world. I am marching in their army of minions.

I first discovered my passion for Googling when I was in grad school. I was married to the wrong man, and I'd sometimes Google my current husband obsessively. I Googled him so obsessively that I wrote a poem based on the hits I got when I searched for his name...it's now my favorite form of poetry...the Google poem.

It's the best way to stalk people, and it's getting better. I like that Google Earth thing, where you can stare at your lover's house. I can't wait until it's in real time, so I can stare at my husband's job and see if he's shooting up. I wish I could Google Earth his veins, his heart and lungs, and see everything that's going on in there.

I love Google Images. I use them to find the pretties to go with my blog. You can find such wonderful pictures if you do a Google Image search for "heroin," "junky," or "heroin abscess." It's awesome.

Sometimes at work we have Google races, like if someone has a question. We'll race race race to see who can find the answer first.

Does anyone remember what we did before Google? Like when you have and Usher song in your head, and you're dying to know, "Does he really, truly say, 'fifty-leven days, umpteen hours,' in the midst of this beautiful love ballad?" Did we just walk around in insufferable ignorance? I can't bear to be away from access to Google's infinite wisdom for more than the 15 minute increment it takes for me to get home. I wish there were a way to plug it into my brain, directly. It's a beautiful thing.

And my lovely, lovely Blogger account...I am getting kind of misty...I'd be lost without it. I love it's ease and functionality. It's the most bestest thing I've ever seen.

And my Gmail! It's on my phone, too! And it's ginormous, big as god, and full of things, and I don't get so much Spam, and people can send me giant pictures, a thousand of them, and it's all ok. And I can search for stuff, like if I know that Jeni sent me a quote that had the word "priapism" in it, I don't have to scroll through a million things. I just type "jeni priapism" and go go go!

And thanks to Google adsense, I've earned something like $3 with all this blogging. Hell yeah! I've told my husband that all proceeds made from the blog go towards his tremendous debt to me. It's something like $2000 that he owes me, not counting the bills he's not paying. I hope he doesn't realize that one way he could make the blog make more money is to act up so that my content would be more interesting...relapse posts get the most hits...SHIT.



Here's my most recent Google poem:

Because it was him,
it was history, just the wrong kind.
I took it with me
because it was him, and his story.
To me, the book was precious
because it was him,
and I knew he would never finish.
Because it was him,
and I understood so well the discomfort that he was feeling,
I did nothing.
Because it was him,
it’s all pretty interesting and informative.
I loved him so much I’d get up out of bed.
Sleep just didn’t matter anymore
because it was him.
He was such a compelling person.
It’s weird to say it, but it was almost a pleasure
because it was him.
He stuck out not only
because it was him alone,
but because he was so charming.
It was because it was him
and his girlfriend. They were kissing.
It was a great picture, but it broke my heart.
Actually, no, that was incredibly funny,
just because it was him
and I had visions of my tongue swelling so horribly.
She smiles. She likes it here,
and she only said it because it was him,
not someone else.
Because it was him,
I was surprised by the swiftness of his actions,
but I didn’t mind.
Even when he did some things
that were thought to be horrible
it didn’t turn me off
because it was him.
Eventually I got over it
because it was him,
and I was so comfortable.
Because I was me,
and I know who I killed in the dream
because it was him,
and I know the emotions I felt when I saw him
because they were mine.
Because it was him
who taught me endurance for the things to come.
Nothing new came from them,
but to me, it was subtle and insidious—
they do it just because it was him
who said it and they hate him.
Is it because it was him
who taught me to be harsh?
“It’s only me,” he said warmly,
and then he said it,
and it was meaningful because it was him..
Not because I believed it,
but because it was him saying it.
Although he never told the truth,
I believed anyway,
because it was him.
It always struck me as doubly provocative
because it was him and his words.
He insisted that this was somehow different
I guess because it was him doing it,
but nothing frightened me
because it was him I wanted
not what he could give me.
If you ask me why I loved him,
I can only say,
because it was him,
because it was me.

Now you go make one...

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