Yesterday you sent me a message on LinkedIn:
“I came across ur picture and I would like 2 get to know u better. Only if ur single, please.”
Your name was Ben, this time. Such a principled man you are, Ben. No married booty calls for you. Not since that time you uploaded a nude to the senior vice president from Chicago and had to apologize to her husband. You don’t intrude on another man’s turf. You’re better than that.
Last week, your name was Oscar. You were lonely and looking for someone kind. You saw past my years of work experience to the lonely yearning flopping like a beached fish upon the banks of my subconscious. And truly, I have the three-second memory of a goldfish. Unless I get these constant reminders, I’ll forget my higher purpose as an emotional support female to anyone who asks.
A few days before that, when your name was Shay, all you said was, “Can you talk.” Not a question, with that period at the end of your sentence.
Yes, Shay. Yes, I have time to talk.
Since the pandemic, I’m the president of my own country, Tereslandia. I go to work meetings on Zoom, and when I come out to use the bathroom, I have a child at the door, waiting to discuss the latest YouTube shenanigans. When I go to lunch, the other child briefs me on the state of the snacks in the pantry. The demand for dried cranberries is at an all-time low. The goldfish cracker supply is shockingly depleted.
You knew I needed something to do during the three and a half minutes of downtime between when I wake up and when I start work. And I felt so special. So understood.
But it turns out you’ve been sending messages to my best friend, too.
In fact, every woman I know seems to hear from you. I thought we had the sort of psychic connection that is only possible when randos reach out over the internet. I printed out all of your messages and placed them in my hope chest! They were going to kindle my Viking funeral pyre when I died, my dead body literally consumed by the flames of your passion for me.
But when I tried to light one, all I got was a tiny smoke fart that smelled of man-whore and broken dreams. So I’m breaking things off between us and going back to using LinkedIn for job-related activities. I know that isn’t what the platform is for when you’re a woman. But when forced to choose between riding into the afterlife girded in the love of my family and friends, or late night internet flatulence, I’m going with the option that looks better on my resume.
