It happens to the best of us. One minute, you're singing its praises, zealously licking some of its naughty bits not otherwise visible to the sun, offering up your most personal information like free fellatio, and spreading your virtual legs, letting it have its way with you. And sickeningly, to both your horror and your fascination, you liked it. Every. Last. Oozing. Dripping. Sticky. Ounce of it.
And then? You came. To your senses, that is. And you terrifyingly realized that the Internet may not be getting you off any longer. So to speak.
But you're not entirely certain. Could it be? Something that once gave you hours of quivering, shivering pleasure suddenly fell limp between your thighs? Maybe all you need is one more animalistic romp to figure out whether it's only the rain making you wet.
So how do you feel out a case of Internet overstimulation? Well, if any of the following apply to you, consider yourself dry, dry, dry as a bone:
Not even your mom can reach you via email anymore. Steppin' up her game from six to ten emails a day? It doesn't faze you! You never have a response anyway. To your mom, to the Dalai Lama, or to anyone, for that matter. The email mountain grows higher and higher, 'til the view of an empty inbox is a mere memory. When the most convenient method of communication becomes so overwhelming that it's an inconvenience, well, you might just have your answer.
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SHOW ME HOW
You use "in real life" a whole lot less. At one point in your existence (maybe, 1998?), only pedophiles, psychopaths, and weirdos met other people online. And then (2003), well, maybe you'd chat with interesting strangers in chat rooms or on forums, but you'd never, ever meet any of these randoms "in real life." This quickly evolved (2006) into "How would I have been introduced to any of these awesome people in real life if it wasn't for the Internet?" Then, remarkably (2009), you began meeting people without the assistance of anything digital...at coffee shops, art gallery openings, running the Memorial Loop, picking up breakfast tacos. And it truly wasn't necessary to say that you met them - gasp! - "in real life." 'Cause, uh, the only ones living in fantasy land these days are those sexually-stifled Twilight fans.
For the forty-third time, no, you have not checked Twitter. Instead of starting conversations with, oh, something like, "How are you today?" your friends launch directly into tirades beginning with, "Can you believe that happened?" When you ask on what drugs your friend has been overdosing, you are greeted with a look that could slacken even the most erect genitalia, and the line, "Uh, haven't you been reading my tweets?" While apologizing profusely, throwing out every known excuse in the book and hoping it sticks, you realize that not only have you not logged on to Twitter today, yesterday, or the day before, but you haven't updated for at least that long, or maybe longer. And you don't give a flying fuck that you haven't.
Facebook has launched a search party for you. You went from updating your status daily - perhaps even multiple times per day! - to letting the status lapse into oblivion, which Facebook automatically removes from your profile header after a week. Your profile picture is from six months ago - or was that a year ago? No one can be sure when or where it was taken anymore. Conversations are happening all over your wall, asking where you are, friends saying they "miss your face," and yet, you can't be bothered to respond, feign concern, or truly give a fuck at all.
Your RSS feed reader looks like your pubes. Wild, overgrown, unattended, in need of a serious bushwhack. And without any sign of the presence of human lifeforms for miles.