There’s no habitable place left on the planet where one can move to escape the data stalkers. Speaking of which, a peeve more personally concerning than whether Edward Snowden discovers where I get my tasteful highlights — or, as the Obama campaign mastered, which candidate I might support given my proclivity for same.
Take one little tiny peek at an item of even remote interest and you are owned by The Thing. Once I Googled a purse that, turned out, cost $1,200. I moved along.
A full year later, I’m reading about immigration reform and suddenly the $1,200 purse slithers into view, imprinting my brain with temptation I didn’t invite.
But, yes, I did. I Googled. I oogled. And, though I resisted, I am henceforth captive to an automated data pimp.
Know this: Whatever you have done online is known. Whatever you will do will be known. And thanks to me, not even Mrs. McQueen and Mrs. Harry G. Brown, bless their dear, departed hearts, can ever be anonymous. Or hot.
Kathleen Parker is a columnist with the Washington Post Writers Group. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.