The idea that there is someone working for the government who is paid to sift through information about me that they (perhaps) glean from my blog postings is absurd.

I suppose they could use computers to pull “information” about us based on our word choice. But would they be able to put together themes based on that? Probably. Infer things…? I’m skeptical about that.

Facebook does it. I guess. Of course, Facebook was recently under the impression that I’d be interested in coupons for “up to 60% off” my next purchase of a pair of clogs.

Wooden clogs.

*sigh*

I feel frequently like people who should know things about me sometimes have as many misses as the computerbots.
Everything I’ve ever said about my Wolf is like that. One huge misdirection so that nobody will remember that, once upon a time, I used to say I was a dog. I was, too. Tamer and sweeter. Or perhaps I am misremembering myself. (I suppose I may have still been prone to a certain poor temperament, but I had not determined at that stage to use whatever came to hand–misdirection, cruelty, aggression–to look after my interests.) But the point of my mentioning it is this: that is how I classified myself. I belonged to someone, too, and I liked to think we were both pleased by this illustration of ourselves.

If you’ve ever seen a happy dog with a happy human, I think that is how it was then.

And…of all the things in the universe that I could have unintentionally fixated on…that was the one. Even after trying to metaphorically beat it or burn it or freeze it out of me…I haven’t been successful. And sometimes I hear a thing that has the same effect on me that the words “walk” or “treat” have on some dogs: the internal picture of me will prick its ears and its tail will start wagging and I can’t do a thing to stop it. I’d like to. I’d like to roll up a newspaper and beat it because I have thought of a million reasons why I should never have felt and should never feel that way about these things…

But I can’t do it. I can’t do it because I love dogs. And I love me. And I love the way the little doggy eyes shine with happies and they make all these little squeaking noises. And why, why would I want to injure myself for feeling like a happy, squeaking doggy?

For all the bad qualities I express towards others, they have nothing at all on the inhuman way I treat myself sometimes.

I just wish to death that I could have found something less utterly ridiculous to be that way about. *shrug* It doesn’t hurt me the way it did for a long while. I’m just…exasperated? Embarrassed? I’m not sure. But I still feel very strongly that it’s a thing to discourage in myself. And I do what I can…but…sometimes…just…it’s all like, “who’s a good boy? Huh? Who? Who is it, Reesey?!” And I don’t want to respond, but damn it, I can’t do anything but wag my tail and be an idiot.

Ugh.

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