A nasty little secret….

I can stop anytime I want....


What I’m about to share with you is not something of which I’m proud; it’s a nasty, grimy, dirty little secret.

But I can no longer keep it to myself; I have to let the truth out and try to set myself free from the guilt I carry.

You see, there’s this thing I do; this personal, secretive thing when I’m alone, and bored, and just want to relieve a little tension. And it’s not as if it hurts anyone else, but it’s certainly something I feel very embarrassed about.

The truth is when I’m alone, in the privacy of my own home, I….well, I…..I Google myself.

I know, I know, it’s not the sort of thing one normally mentions in polite company, but I think someone needs to bring this issue out into the open – come on, don’t tell me you’ve never tried it?

For me it started innocently enough, just the occasional double checking of send-and-receive in my email program, although the computer checks for emails every minute by itself. Clearly I was hooked on the little frisson of excitement when something delicious pops up in my inbox.

But it didn’t stop there, one empty day after receiving nothing but spam, spam, spam, I knew it was time to seek my digital high elsewhere.

So I closed my office door and sneaked onto Google’s sleek, comforting site, surreptitiously typed in my name, checking over my shoulder lest I be caught, and entered a new world of addiction.

Soon I was Googling myself a couple times a week; so often that the search engine remembered my name like a good friend.

I became secretive and risk-taking; Googling while my partner was in the office with me, or even sneaking in on my way to bed to see if anything new was happening.

Then my habit exploded and I started Googling friends, loved ones – it’s hard to admit, but once I even Googled another woman’s husband – I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just curious and well, there he was; laid out for anyone to access.

Of course I know that I can stop anytime I want.

But for now I’m hooked on the buzz. The thrill of a new mention, a new post, the all-too-familiar flatness of reading the same old stuff – the experimenting with names of old boyfriends, family and new acquaintances. The sympathy for those who don’t even register a mention – not even as someone else.

Really you’re nobody until you’re on Google.

I share my name with a zoologist in Africa who does some killer research into bugs, a Melbourne tapestry artist, and a slick Gold Coast businesswoman. My namesakes are a clever lot and I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for any of them, though the bug chick does sound a bit out there. I wonder if she Googles too?

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