Happy Valentine’s Day, you poor miserable fools in relationships with actual living and breathing humans! I pity you and your dependence on fallible, emotional mammals. You’re going to spend today in frantic communication with whichever bag of flesh and veins you’ve most recently allowed to see you naked, squabbling about restaurant reservations and gift exchanges, getting too drunk over an expensive dinner, crying in a cab, and falling asleep during sloppy, requisite sex. Meanwhile, I sit high in my ivory tower, judging you and your poor mortal choices, curled up on literally any surface with the love of my life — the internet.
No. Stop. Shut up. Whatever judgmental, hateful thing you’re about to say, just save it, okay? Hear me out. The internet is a better boyfriend then you could ever imagine, and here is why: every problem I’ve had with a gentleman caller, I will literally never have with the internet. We never have to have ‘the talk’ because the internet and I know exactly what we are to each other, and where our relationship stands. We never have communication issues, because whenever I want something from the internet, I type it into a little box and press enter and it is immediately delivered to me. I don’t have to send it scary stalker texts when I find out it leaves a party with its ex-girlfriend. The internet would never do that to me; I don’t even think it has the ability. We’re both allowed to see other people, but I don’t get insecure because there’s enough internet to go around. It goes where I go and waits quietly in a sexy hotspot until I need it, without ever asking me to leave early so we can go watch football.
There are never any communication issues or awkward silences. I can get lost in Wikipedia the way the rest of you get lost in each others’ eyes, except I come out of it with a vast knowledge of Ted Bundy’s criminal history and you come out of it with a desperate need for Visine after not blinking for fifteen minutes. The internet always has the information I need. It never gets in an argument with me about whether or not Nancy Reagan is alive, or where the closest Chipotle is. The internet just knows, without having to ask, or wheedle, or beg. And it asks nothing from me in return. It gives and gives, and expects nothing back. The internet would never take me to dinner and then expect a blowjob even though it hadn’t showered. That’s not its way. And speaking of sexy times…I don’t need to have any of those with the internet. I could. In fact maybe I even should, just to spice up My Strange Addiction a little more, but I won’t, okay? Because I don’t want to ruin what the internet and I have. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen asleep with my phone next to me and awoken to to find my dignity and my virtue still intact.
So yeah. This Valentine’s Day I’ve got exactly what I need. If I want flowers, I just tell the internet and the internet will send them to me. If I want chocolates, I’ll ask the internet where to go and the internet will walk with me in my pocket until I find where I’m going. And if I want to fall asleep in front of a rom-com tonight with a glass of red wine in my hand and pure, chick flick induced tears on my cheeks, I’m gonna do that and the internet won’t even raise an eyebrow. But you enjoy your cheap teddy bears, awkward silences, and premature ejaculations tonight, WORLD, and try to tell me I’m not the smartest single bitch that ever paid for WiFi.