06/10/2011 05:25 pm ET Updated Aug 10, 2011

Damn Internet: You're Ruining My Life

I pride myself on being very Cool with the opposite sex. I am not pushy or aggressive; I do not fawn over any guy who simply brushes past me -- unless he does it several times in a public place, preferably during the day where there isn't a hint of alcohol or drugs. As someone who is Cool, I have the rare ability to read a situation and act/react appropriately. And I never pine over men; it's usually the other way around. However, twenty-three days ago I gave my phone number to a guy and the prick still hasn't called. What happened? We were so right for each other.

"Still hasn't? Try didn't," said my I'm-married-now-and-I-forget-how-to-talk-to-my-single-friends friend. She informed me the term 'hasn't called' expires somewhere around Day 4. How she knew this as a married person, I did not know. I was dumbfounded; one, by her sudden expertise, and two, by this sudden change of events in my dating life. This never happens. What had I done in the past few weeks to make him dump me before we even went anywhere? What had changed? Is he dead?

"He probably Googled you," said my married friend as-a-matter-of-fact. I kind of wanted to club her with my shoe. And then I wanted to club myself for not speaking to any of my single friends first. But rather than deal with my issues with aggression, I decided there was a greater issue of which to take umbrage. Googling people. Really? Since when do we as a nation of emotionally intelligent people resort to Googling people, when we're not Facebook stalking? Since when do we as a society allow the Internet to alter our opinions on potential life mates? Don't we know that any sick, yet highly technologically savvy individual can strategically construct half-truths and half-lies for the world to see? I couldn't believe someone would actually Google me. Who am I? Gloria Estefan?

I needed to act. I needed to take matters into my own hands. So I clicked on my Internet browser, entered my name in the little bar, and waited. Those two seconds were the longest of my life, waiting for the life people think I have to unfold. My eyes scanned the results: a profile on Friendster -- that still exists? -- a community theater performance in Jersey, ok no big deal, at least I don't think -- a random site claiming to have all of the "accurate" information about me, okay fine whatever. Then I found it. Uh-oh. Ew. This must be it.

One of my early writer bios -- and by 'early' I don't mean 'early early' more like 'before I knew any better' early -- lists all the credentials I deemed necessary for the serious, quasi-depressing writer I thought I was. My eyes scanned the italicized lines of bio: featured in War on Iraq Panel... Congressmen Blah Blah... Arab Youth Conference... Washington DC... I suppose at the time I wrote this bio, I wanted to sound smart; after all, my breadth of writerly work entailed memories of my mother dressing me like a substitute teacher from Guadalajara for class picture day. But while reading this bio for the first time in months, I realized I didn't sound smart. I sounded like a terrorist. And no one wants to date a terrorist.

Maybe I should send him some writing samples?

Panic set in. This new feeling of a loss of control over my dating life led me to a course of action reserved for mourning the relationships I could have sworn I had. While listening to Shaday, guzzling red wine and dining on lowfat marble cake, a moment of clarity struck. I should just take the bio down! After all, do I really want information that is completely not representative of who I now think I am, just floating around out there in cyberworld? How many more times am I going to be dumped without even going anywhere?

As I began crafting an awkward email to the people responsible for posting the bio I sent to them, I began thinking about Him, and our romance that never was. If only it wasn't for the Internet. Oh we could have been great. Better than great. I'd never met someone so close to perfect: he was almost as smart as me; he was cute -- but not as cute as me; he was funny, but certainly not funnier than me (there can only be one funny one in the relationship). It was a perfect match. I wish he could just go back to that day and remember what could have been...

Damn Internet.

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