Tuesday, October 04, 2005
A New Era of Stalking Dawns
So if you're like me (and you should be!) and you check Friendster about a hundred times daily, you probably noticed the shocking betrayal that occurred last Friday when Friendster, with no warning or advance notice whatsoever, gave everyone on the network the ability to see who's been viewing their profile. Suddenly the entirely harmless pastime of repeatedly viewing the profiles of people who broke up with you in high school or listed "postmodernism" as an interest or simply happened to have kind-looking faces took on a whole new dimension. It was instantly embarrassing, as though rather than skimming over profiles for evidence of intelligent life (or even just life with good cheekbones), we had all been touching ourselves inappropriately over them, puddles of drool and/or other bodily fluids collecting at our feet.
Or maybe I'm overstating the case. There was, of course, the delightful converse experience of scanning through the ranks of those who had viewed our own profiles (some 140, for me, which I attribute to the new Glamour Shots I had done) and knowing that we'd been thought somehow interesting, even occasionally by people with the requisite numbers of fingers and toes. I mean, sure, it's not attention on the level of a craigslist missed connection, but it beats getting stared at by a crazy person on the train. Well, I guess it depends on how cute the crazy person is.
But anyway, I just want to say to anyone whose profile I happened to view in September that it was a complete accident caused by my cat Muffin's awkward tendency to jump on my keyboard for an afternoon nap. Same with all those creepy messages I sent you. Damned literate cat.
So if you're like me (and you should be!) and you check Friendster about a hundred times daily, you probably noticed the shocking betrayal that occurred last Friday when Friendster, with no warning or advance notice whatsoever, gave everyone on the network the ability to see who's been viewing their profile. Suddenly the entirely harmless pastime of repeatedly viewing the profiles of people who broke up with you in high school or listed "postmodernism" as an interest or simply happened to have kind-looking faces took on a whole new dimension. It was instantly embarrassing, as though rather than skimming over profiles for evidence of intelligent life (or even just life with good cheekbones), we had all been touching ourselves inappropriately over them, puddles of drool and/or other bodily fluids collecting at our feet.
Or maybe I'm overstating the case. There was, of course, the delightful converse experience of scanning through the ranks of those who had viewed our own profiles (some 140, for me, which I attribute to the new Glamour Shots I had done) and knowing that we'd been thought somehow interesting, even occasionally by people with the requisite numbers of fingers and toes. I mean, sure, it's not attention on the level of a craigslist missed connection, but it beats getting stared at by a crazy person on the train. Well, I guess it depends on how cute the crazy person is.
But anyway, I just want to say to anyone whose profile I happened to view in September that it was a complete accident caused by my cat Muffin's awkward tendency to jump on my keyboard for an afternoon nap. Same with all those creepy messages I sent you. Damned literate cat.
