Dodging Bullets In Slow Motion: I’m In The Matrix

Lordy, lordy, it’s just terrible how the younger generation always goes around dating people who are absolutely all-wrong for them. Get this: one night many years ago, my 20-year-old self was feeling glum because her Sort-Of Boyfriend at the time called to tell her he’d just got engaged, an effective but undeniably crass way to break off a relationship.

Poor thing. That’s why, if time travel’s ever invented, I plan to visit my younger self and cheer her up by telling her what I learned during a Googlebomb nostalgia trip the other night.

You know the ones I’m talking about, where you let your memory wander and then do a search for whatever names it brings back? In my case, such searches are often fruitless because so many of my old friends had rather common names of the “John Smith” variety.

But my former Sort-Of Boyfriend’s name is unusual enough to make it very easy to find online. And find it I did. It’s undeniably the SOB, as the biography on his business website made clear.

My, oh my.

Hee hee hee hee hee.

Here’s the thing about my younger self: even when I get the whole time-travel thing figured out, I’ll have to be careful regarding how to share my recent Googlebomb discovery with Young Me. She’s pretty resilient, but even she might have difficulty absorbing the one-two whammy of a crass breakup followed by the sight of her older self emerging from the glowing electric-blue time vortex that just materialized in the middle of her old college studio apartment.

But I’ll introduce myself to myself, somehow, and tell Young Me all about what’s wrong with America in 2008: torture, TSA, war, civil liberties, peak oil, economy, blah sadness and blah.

“Oh, that makes me feel a hell of a lot better,” Young Me will say. “That’s what you came back to tell me? There’s got to be more to it than that. Lemme guess: we’re also giving birth to the Antichrist, right? Fine. Christ, what a night I’m having. Tell me what bar I’m supposed to go to to pick up Satan, then. Tell me we at least get good jewelry out of this.”

(Tangential observation: Young Me was far more sarcastic than Current Me, but had much to learn concerning subtlety and the benefits thereof.)

I’ll be patient with my younger self. “No Antichrist. Nothing like that,” I’ll say. “Remember what I told you about the Internet? And blogs, and comments, and what they can reveal about someone’s personality and political outlook?”

“Yes. And I should start my own blog a lot earlier than 2006, and when I get Google ads don’t write anything making fun of them because doing that is how you got us banned from Google for life.”

“Well – yes. But that’s not what I came to the late 20^th century to tell you. Listen: remember what I said about Fox News?”

“Although I like both shows and think their detractors are too uptight, Married With Children and The Simpsons really are going to destroy America, because their success will eventually lead to a wealthy news network that cheerleads the development of that scary Orwell stuff you were talking about.”

“Exactly. And remember those Fox News anchors I mentioned? Listen to this: in 2008, [SOB] will be a divorcee who posts on the network’s blogs to write things like ‘What shocking behavior. My children know better than to behave like that. Excellent show as usual, Greta.’”

Yes indeed.

“Excellent show.”
“As usual.”
“Greta.”

And before I step back into the time vortex to return to the present day, Young Me and Current Me will do what Two Nights Ago Me did upon making this discovery: laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

EDIT: And after a night's sleep I see that nobody but nobody gets why I thought this was so funny: my younger self was depressed because she couldn't pursue a romantic relationship with the type of guy who went on to post "Get off my lawn" - style comments on the blog of Greta Van Susteren.

Apparently my modern taste in humor is about as good as my former taste in men. Sigh.