internet

YouTube thinks I’m weird.

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The Internet is a wonderfully complex organism. It thinks. It responds. It knows what you are looking for in a potential mate. But most importantly, it likes to recommend things for you.

In this era of smart technology, I’ve come to expect a lot from social media websites. I expect them to know what brands I like, what politics I preach, and what Twitter followers I’d most likely follow. This expectation crosses all social media platforms. And I feel like most have a fairly accurate opinion of who I am – except for YouTube.

Below is a screenshot of some of YouTube’s recommendations for me this morning:

youtuberesults1. One of my current Broadway obsessions is the musical adaptation of Matilda. Kids rocking out like Spring Awakening? Good work, YouTube.

My Nerd Points: 20

2. I’m subscribed to Emma Blackery’s channels (she’s one of the many YouTubers I follow from across the Pond). Two points: YouTube.

My Punk Points: 10

3. I have no clue what this is. But it disturbs me. And is Emo Dad an actual web series? And why am I being recommended the finale of this show? Minus one point: YouTube.

My Emo Points: 5

4. Now I’m trying to think of what I have watched in the past that might make YouTube think I’m one of “those” people who are in the REAL Apocalypse Shelter market. Wait. Am I one of “those” people? Excuse me while I have an identity crisis. Minus one point: me.

My Gun Toter Points: 25

5. Apparently YouTube thinks I’m dying to know what’s next in the world of Soaps. My question: is the girl in the picture “the bold” or “the beautiful?” I am now intrigued. Minus one point: me.

My Cat Lady Points: 15

6. Everything about the title of this video confuses me … First up on #TableTalk: what happens to you when you die? And after you’ve given yourself a complex, let’s talk about your dating life.

My Cat Lady Points: 25

7. I don’t think I want to watch The Dirty Old Greek Man do anything. Unless it’s a deleted scene from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, because I’m on that like dirty old clothes on a greek man.

My Possible Unabomber Points: 10

I’m not sure if it’s me or them, but the folks at YouTube HQ must think I’m weird. That or a cat-owning, show-tune-singing doomsday-prepper. But then again, is it possible they me better than I know myself? Maybe I need to stop questioning their recommendations and start watching them. For all I know I’ll like Emo Dad. But probably not.

Feb. 13, 2001

Everyday

Below is an entry I made in my diary exactly twelve years ago today. I was eleven years old.

photo

The first thing that I realized upon reading this (other than my poor spelling and grammar) was that this was written during the early days of the internet when it would crash for no apparent reason during the worst moments possible – namely in the middle of a very gripping Neopets game of Dice-A-Roo. It was also the point of my life when we only had one family computer. It lived in the hallway at the top of the stairs and its usage was on a very strict time schedule (we had to be fair, you know). This was a time before Google, when you had to ask a presumptuous butler to answer your random questions. A time when you had the dial-up tone memorized and your mailbox would greet you with “you’ve got mail.” A time when chatrooms were totally da bomb, you had to upgrade your AOL with a computer disk that came in the mail, and when not getting to be on the computer would ruin my day. And make me so, so, so mad. It was a simpler time.

It’s always weird for me to read my old journals. I think it’s because, although I can’t really remember what the weather was like or what clothes I was wearing, I can always remember how I felt at the moment I wrote an entry. Like some weird sixth sense connection I have with my past self.

I sometimes forget that little girl didn’t disappear. She’s been with me all along. She’s a little taller and a little bolder, but she’s still the same little girl who was afraid to grow up. The girl who loved climbing trees and making mud pies. The one who wanted so much to be appreciated for being herself. To have her schoolwork posted on the refrigerator and to be called upon by name. The little girl who, when everyone wanted to be models or mothers or princesses, had wanted to be a writer.

And look at her now.