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My Internet Divorce

by Donald N.S. Unger

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       It is true that my divorce attorney tried to suggest to me that I might be over-interpreting. It is true that she didn’t seem convinced that I was doing the right thing. She did make a genuine effort to change my mind. 

And I appreciate that. 

I also understand that she was “acting against her own interests,” trying not to take my money—which is...not what lawyers are really known for. 

But...

But it seemed pretty clear to me as well that she just didn’t understand the magical ways of the Interwebs, the things that just come to you out of the ether, things it would just be foolish to ignore. We have opportunities and we have to take them; they don’t stick around for long. 

So—in soccer, I understand, three goals is a hat trick. I have no idea why—when I got those three messages, not just on the same day but pretty much in a just incredible twenty-minute run of luck, what was I supposed to do?  What would any rational person do? 

It had been discovered that I had seventeen million dollars in a Nigerian bank account, there would be some details about getting it out of the country. 

Well, of course! 

Other countries have complicated bureaucracies. 

We should stop being so smug and superior about that. We have our own red tape too.

 And—look—I can be cynical and hard-nosed, along with the best of you. I did a great deal of “discounting,” to allow for various potential fees and scams and cheats.

I’m not naïve!  

But, for the sake of argument, let’s say I “only” got 10% of that, net. 

So what?  Really

I’d only get $1.7 million, writing off 90% of it?  That’s not a new life?  I don’t need gold-plated toilets. I could make that work. 

Then there was the “MILF 1.2 miles away [who] wants to have sex [with me].”

I don’t think people really analyze these things closely enough. But I do. 

The fact that it was “1.2” miles—that .2 in there—that really matters. 

That’s credible. 

People trying to scam you?  You know, they’re just not that bright, they always use whole numbers.  That “.2”—if you’re paying attention, like I am—that tells you it’s real.

I did some “discounting” there as well, certainly entertained the possibility that the picture wasn’t actually her, or—maybe—that it had been her at some point in her past and she didn’t really look exactly like that anymore. 

But I don’t look exactly the way I’ve looked in the past either. 

We age. I don’t think we should hold that against people. 

So, I had the money. I didn’t have to work anymore. 

And I had a Honey. I didn’t need my wife for that anymore.

The online Master’s Degree in Social Work—$79.95 per semester; GRE scores waived—that was just “gravy.” 

I wanted to give back, that looked like a good way to do it. 

The world—I don’t know, maybe, really The Universe—had just reached down and dinged me with a magic wand. I thought it made sense to try to do something for other people in return. 

My life had gotten just incredibly better. 

I figured I would pay it forward—or whatever the cliché was from that awful movie. 

Anyway. 

The divorce has just been far more ugly than I could have predicted (although I do want to give my now-ex-wife credit for not going after my Nigerian bank account. That was really quite decent of her).

I’m pretty sure that my children will forgive me. 

Eventually.

Not that I’m judging—I want to be very clear about that—but I have not continued my relationship with the sixty-three-year-old transsexual, two towns over (really closer to 5.2 miles away, but I don’t want to pick nits here), with whom I did have a very brief. . . interaction.

Whatever else, I do feel that my social work degree has been helpful. I see the world much more clearly now: people, motives, logical cascades of actions.

Still waiting for that Nigerian wire transfer, though. 


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