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Late-night searches are a dangerous game. You're lying in bed, innocent and curious, and suddenly you're knee-deep in conspiracy theories about why aliens built the pyramids. Before you know it, it's 3 AM, and you're convinced that your neighbor's cat is actually a government spy. And don't even get me started on medical searches. Type in "headache," and within seconds, you're convinced you're a rare case of intergalactic brain fever. It's like WebMD has a degree in turning innocent symptoms into the plot of a sci-fi thriller. "Doctor, I think I have a cold." "No, you have extraterrestrial nasal syndrome with a touch of parallel universe phlegm!
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You ever notice how search engines are like that overly enthusiastic friend who just won't stop suggesting things? I mean, I type in one innocent question, and suddenly Google's like, "Oh, you like cats? How about learning to speak Catonese or joining a feline yoga class?" I'm just trying to find out if cats can eat watermelon without turning into fruitarian furballs! And then there's predictive text, right? I start typing, and it's like playing a game of predictive roulette. I'm just praying it doesn't embarrass me in front of my boss or, worse, my grandma. "Hey grandma, how's the arthritis?" Thanks, autocorrect, I was going for 'Grandma, how's the lasagna?
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I don't get these algorithms. They claim to know me better than I know myself. I searched for "best pizza near me," and suddenly my whole online world is a pizza paradise. Ads for pizza ovens, pizza-themed clothing, and a dating app for pizza enthusiasts. I mean, I love pizza, but I'm not ready to commit to a pepperoni and sausage relationship! And then there's the moment you realize you're being tracked. You search for one thing, and next thing you know, your screen is flooded with ads for that very item. I looked up how to fix a leaky faucet, and suddenly my laptop is bombarding me with suggestions for plumbing courses. I just wanted to stop the dripping, not become the Mario of the plumbing world!
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Raise your hand if you've ever Googled yourself. Go ahead; admit it, we're all friends here. But seriously, it's like walking into a dark room with a flashlight, hoping you don't find any monsters—or worse, embarrassing photos from that college party you thought were deleted. And then there's the autocomplete. You start typing your name, and it's like the internet has its own opinions about you. "John Doe arrested," "John Doe net worth," "John Doe latest scandal." I'm just trying to find my old high school yearbook photo, not become the star of a true crime documentary!
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