Google’s algorithm knows what you did last summer, why you did it and who you did it with.
The sneaky formula is now so powerful it knows you better than you do. You didn’t know you wanted that hideous inflatable beach lounger but it knew and you bought it and now you look like a dick.
It knows you toyed with the idea of laser hair removal and plasters the screen with ads featuring hirsute ladies whenever anyone looks over your shoulder.
It remembers that swanky resort you can’t afford and rubs its shit hot beauty in your face whenever you’re having a low moment.
You’re not entirely sure why it insists on plying you with promos for leak-proof lady pants but you think it might be having a dig about your age.
You conclude that some malevolent weak-limbed Silicon Valley millionaire designed the algorithm to torment you. It’s better than confronting the harsh reality that it’s a reflection of your hopes and dreams.
You employ a liberal dose of denial, settle your hairy ass into the inflatable monstrosity and do your best not to piss yourself.