I know we’ve had our conversations. I know I’ve shared all sorts of information with you – probably more than I’m even aware of. I know you’ve got a great memory and you probably know a fair bit about me. I confess, I don’t know how – or even always why – you manage to grab and store all the information. Maybe, if you’re in a conspiratory mood, you can collect massive sets of my data to provide to the government or the impending alien landing party. Or, just as sneaky and treacherous, feed me advertising that I can’t resist. I’ve come to expect directed advertising. It’s now just that unfortunate but accepted part of our relationship. Like a partner’s snoring. Or farting.
Now, I don’t expect you to get it right all the time. I’m all over the place on the web and it’s confusing sometimes for my real-world people. You are certainly to be forgiven for offerring me the odd obscure advertisement, thinking that I just might swoon over it.
But I do need to talk to you about one ad in particular.
I don’t know what your relationship is with this guy – maybe he’s your brother, best friend from elementary school or boss’ kid – and I appreciate your committment and persistence in trying to get him a date. You display his picture on so many websites. A lot. No one can fault your attempts to get this guy a girlfriend. [I have made the assumption that he’s not looking for a boyfriend…]
But you’re advertising to the wrong girl here. It’s just not going to happen. I mean, I’m sure he’s a nice enough guy, but there’s the whole I’m married thing. And the not participating in the organized religion thing.
I’m afraid this is one of those instances where your algorithms let you down. Some days, no matter how much we talk, I just don’t get the feeling that you get me. But don’t worry. We’ll still talk. I”m sure there will be lots of chance to get my data profile sorted out.
In the mean time? I know I typed farting up there. If you don’t mind, please don’t incorporate that into my profile. It’s a word. Not data.