A Bitch’s Right to “Research”

I have widely acknowledged that I am one sketchy bitch. Google is the spunky and highly educated Asian sidekick I’ve always wanted. You know, someone who lets you cheat off her homework, collects Hello Kitty memorabilia, and whose mom makes a mean mushu. Google has helped me find many nearby sexual predators, hot new sushi spots, and almost everything you could ever know about a potential suitor. I feel there are many blurred lines between using the Internet for research or restitution. I have no fucking clue what the word restitution means.

I don’t like going into any situation blind. I haven’t been into a restaurant without aggressively reading their menu beforehand since 2006. It has become a game for my friends to quiz me on side dishes and specialty appetizers since they already know I have most likely memorized the bill of fare.

Drive bys are so 2009. Now instead of borrowing your little sister’s car with tinted windows, putting on a beanie, and a large pair of shades as you carefully drive by your new love interest’s place for a pre-visit inspection, you can just do a digital drive by via Google.

I once went out with a guy who I vigorously Googled prior to our first date. After some geo-tagging I was able to locate his residence and was very pleasantly surprised when Google Earth showed me the exteriors of his remodeled condominium.

After a few cocktails, we hopped in a cab back to his place. He began telling me a funny story from college and was clearly distracted by my shimmering cheekbones and full of shit feigned interest. The cab driver missed a turn and I casually said “Sir, you needed to make a left at the stop sign you just passed. It’s the grey building on the corner.”

At first he didn’t compute and I hurriedly tried to continue conversation. Failed mission.

“Wait… how did you know where I live?” Shit.

“Um… I am just kind of psychic. I normally don’t tell people on the first date. It’s kinda like a ‘That’s So Raven’ deal sans the closeted lesbian factor. LAWLZ!”

That joke didn’t translate and I could instantly see fear in his eyes. Suddenly what was looking to be a fun night quickly turned into him being “super tired” and needing to be at work “super early.” WAY HARSH TAI. The evening went from promising passion to pending restraining order in a matter of seconds.

I guess curiosity killed the connection. As I called my best friend and told her the critical error I made, we began dissecting my habits. Am I insanely creepy or just adamantly curious? Are these two synonymous? Do I need a hobby? Probably. One may draw the conclusion I am insecure, batshit crazy or severely unstable. I prefer to think I am proactively curious and adorable.

I believe all bitches have the right to utilize our God given resources. I have learned during my personal pursuit of information the following is crucial:

  1. Establish a motive. Like in any high profile business establishments, background checks are not only mandatory but justified. What exactly are you looking for? Financial stability? Relationship history? Federal offenses? Find your motive and stay organized. I am well aware that these are my golden years; I ain’t wasting a weekend going out for fucking teppanyaki with a guy who was president of the Scientology Club in high school.
  2. Clear your browser history. When a guy comes over and asks to use your laptop and you have his name and yearly income in the search bar, things WILL get awky. Trust me, I have learned this the hard way… twice.
  3. Play dumb. Sure, you know what every person in his family looks like already, where he went to college, what his GPA was and his unique blood type. But never reveal your knowledge. Quite frankly it’s none of their fucking business. And always remember when it comes to constitutional research, honesty is the WORST policy.

 

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2 comments

  1. I’m gonna go with really curious. That dude seriously? I would find that as a compliment if a girl wanted to know more stuff about me. Dude should have continued to be dazzled by your shiny jewelry.

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