It's official. Facebook is insidious. There was an ad strategically placed on my newsfeed for the Candy Crush Saga app. When I first saw it, it briefly captured my attention, then I moved on. But the seed had been planted. Then I saw the ad again, and it stuck. I downloaded it, and now I'm addicted.
It was technically "free" to download but you only have five lives and if you max them out trying to get to the next level, you have to wait 8, maybe 10, maybe 20 minutes for a new life to continue playing. OR, you can BUY five more lives and keep playing NOW.
Guess what happened next. I got app raped. I spent a few bucks so I could keep playing, like a gambling addict in the wee hours of the morning, sucking the last dregs of cheap alcohol from a plastic cup, scrounging for those last few dollars while getting the stink eye from the dealer who's counting the minutes until the end of what seems like an interminable shift.
It seemed wrong to shell out dough so I could keep matching virtual candy but I couldn't help myself. I felt dirty afterwards. When I was asked for my Apple ID so I could buy more lives, I shamefully tapped in my password, thinking I'd sunk to a new low.
So you see, Facebook isn't free. They get their money through the back door (pun intended). Who needs a user fee when advertisers pay Facebook to sell people shit that's specifically targeted to their own individual interests. I don't know why everyone has their panties in a knot over Obama reading their e-mail. Facebook knows more about you than the government ever will. Big Brother is watching, with your permission.
Does this mean I'm going to delete my Facebook profile? I bought the app, didn't I?
Friday, June 28, 2013
Friday, June 7, 2013
Fake nipples and Frankenveins
So I'm walking down the street the other day and some guy gives me a look. Then I realize what's happened. I'm wearing a hoodie under a thin coat, and hoodies have strings, with knots at the ends, which end up strategically placed near the nipple area under said coat. So it looked like I had giant nipples. Mystery solved.
It's strange what time off can do to a person what with the mental space that opens up when you're not caught in your daily routine. My boyfriend and I were on vacation last week in downtown Montreal. About mid-week, I decide to ask him for advice about something I'd been tossing around in my mind.
You see, I have a Frankenleg, or in other words, varicose veins, which apparently, is hereditary. I guess it's better than inheriting a high probability of getting breast cancer and having to chop off my boobs. Oh Angie... But I digress. It's not gotten to the point where the mere sight of my legs frightens little children but it's just enough to start being somewhat noticeable, to me, and possibly no one else. But still.
My family physician referred me to a vein clinic almost two years ago but I didn't really follow up because I saw it as some kind of possibly risky cosmetic surgery and, at the time, wasn't bothered enough by the tiny bulge in the back of my left leg to do anything about it.
Fast forward almost two years later, on a downtown Montreal street. The boyfriend thinks it's probably like getting a tooth filling - not a big deal. I sense he's right. And then I get sucked into the rabbit hole. I must have my leg fixed NOW.
I look up the clinic on the Internet and do some reading. The procedure to get rid of the frankenveins is pretty straightforward, like getting a tooth filling. It's too late to call the clinic that evening so I'm up early the next day making a long distance call because I want an appointment as soon as possible so I can fix my leg in time for summer.
"How about 3 pm on August 29th" says the woman from the clinic. "Sure", I say. Just in time for... fall. I have to wait three months. I feel completely deflated. I mean, I made the appointment, which was good, but three months! Three summer months of shorts wearing! The horror!
At this point, the obsessing intensifies. The full length mirror in our hotel room doesn't help one bit. I don't have one of those at home so I don't see my full legs very often. But now I do, and I stare, and scrutinize and judge and am horrified. It utterly consumes me.
We see these super cool international dance shows while in Montreal and all I can think is "look how perfect their legs are. I wish mine looked like that."
It's strange how the mind works, once it decides to notice something, and focus on it intently. I would imagine that comes in handy when you're trying to achieve goals but not so much when you'd just like to turn off the switch.
Then my boyfriend asks me: "Has anyone ever pointed it out to you?" "No", I say. "When I spoke of it with friends, I actually had to show them my Frankenleg because they hadn't noticed anything". "Uh-huh", he says. Message received. Sometimes, the sheer depth of my superficiality scares me.
It's strange what time off can do to a person what with the mental space that opens up when you're not caught in your daily routine. My boyfriend and I were on vacation last week in downtown Montreal. About mid-week, I decide to ask him for advice about something I'd been tossing around in my mind.
You see, I have a Frankenleg, or in other words, varicose veins, which apparently, is hereditary. I guess it's better than inheriting a high probability of getting breast cancer and having to chop off my boobs. Oh Angie... But I digress. It's not gotten to the point where the mere sight of my legs frightens little children but it's just enough to start being somewhat noticeable, to me, and possibly no one else. But still.
My family physician referred me to a vein clinic almost two years ago but I didn't really follow up because I saw it as some kind of possibly risky cosmetic surgery and, at the time, wasn't bothered enough by the tiny bulge in the back of my left leg to do anything about it.
Fast forward almost two years later, on a downtown Montreal street. The boyfriend thinks it's probably like getting a tooth filling - not a big deal. I sense he's right. And then I get sucked into the rabbit hole. I must have my leg fixed NOW.
I look up the clinic on the Internet and do some reading. The procedure to get rid of the frankenveins is pretty straightforward, like getting a tooth filling. It's too late to call the clinic that evening so I'm up early the next day making a long distance call because I want an appointment as soon as possible so I can fix my leg in time for summer.
"How about 3 pm on August 29th" says the woman from the clinic. "Sure", I say. Just in time for... fall. I have to wait three months. I feel completely deflated. I mean, I made the appointment, which was good, but three months! Three summer months of shorts wearing! The horror!
At this point, the obsessing intensifies. The full length mirror in our hotel room doesn't help one bit. I don't have one of those at home so I don't see my full legs very often. But now I do, and I stare, and scrutinize and judge and am horrified. It utterly consumes me.
We see these super cool international dance shows while in Montreal and all I can think is "look how perfect their legs are. I wish mine looked like that."
It's strange how the mind works, once it decides to notice something, and focus on it intently. I would imagine that comes in handy when you're trying to achieve goals but not so much when you'd just like to turn off the switch.
Then my boyfriend asks me: "Has anyone ever pointed it out to you?" "No", I say. "When I spoke of it with friends, I actually had to show them my Frankenleg because they hadn't noticed anything". "Uh-huh", he says. Message received. Sometimes, the sheer depth of my superficiality scares me.
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