Every time a targeted ad pops up on my phone or computer, I’m torn between being repulsed and fascinated. My intellectual side rages against living in a world where every electronic device doubles as an artificial intelligence-fueled spy devoted to knowing me better than I know myself. But then I see an ad for a Die Hard Nakatomi Tower advent calendar or tickets to see the Star Wars burlesque show, and my eyes light up.

Instead of worrying about how technology seems to be infringing on our private spaces and thoughts, I’ve decided to embrace it. I love my algorithm and want nothing more than to understand it. I’ll talk within range of my phone about something obscure I’m interested in, just to see if it my algorithm is listening. Whenever an ad pops up or something is recommended, I try to determine why.

Sometimes the rationale is simple. Die Hard is one of my favorite movies, and I’ve purchased advent calendars — hence the Nakatomi Tower advent calendar.
Sometimes the suggestions are more nuanced. I’d never have guessed I’d enjoy watching videos of people clearing storm drains or washing exceedingly dirty carpets, but YouTube had me pegged based on my love of lawn mowing videos.

And, yes, sometimes the algorithm makes no sense. You won’t find me buying sheer “ice silk underpants with 3D pouch and ventholes” no matter how many times Facebook tries to sell them to me.

Regardless, my algorithm is infinitely entertaining and — ice silk underpants aside — surprisingly useful in a true capitalist/consumer way. It has led me to some unique gifts and purchases and some memorable concerts and shows I might have missed.

Recently, my obsession with my algorithm collided with another of my “favorite” pastimes: filling out medical registration questionnaires. When you’ve clicked through as many of these forms as I have, you begin to wonder if they serve an ulterior agenda. Are they trying to discredit me? I can see the computer saying, “Last time this guy said he had three kidney stone surgeries. This time he only mentioned one. Flag him!”

But I had a different idea filling one out while I was thinking about my algorithm. What if there was a medical algorithm? An algorithm built on the hundreds of questionnaires, test results and after-office visits I’ve accumulated that tried to keep me healthy instead of selling me things I probably don’t need.

Sure, it could suggest equipment that worked for others with similar function and needs, but it could do so much more. It could help find the best experts to treat your needs, or maybe even supplant the need for experts. By comparing all your data with others around the world and throughout history, it could predict and analyze your health needs with accuracy that doctors could only dream of.

I started thinking about all the data that could fuel my algorithm, and the possibilities seemed revolutionary. I was getting excited.

Then an email from 23andMe popped into my inbox. It reminded me how leery I am about sharing my health info with third-party vendors. Images of Mark Zuckerberg and Elon Musk and the people behind the current algorithms started floating in my head. I could see my utopian solution morphing into a dystopian nightmare.

Tracking my internet history and eavesdropping on my daily conversations to sell me superfluous stuff is one thing, but having access to every microscopic data point of my medical history is a whole other level of creepy.

As it dawned on me that someone smarter than me is already building, or has built, something similar to what I envisioned, I stopped thinking about how a medical algorithm could improve my life and started worrying about whether we should be working to stop such an entity. It’s probably too late for the latter, but brainstorming about how we regulate and implement such a powerful tool seems essential. Here’s hoping my algorithm senses my interest in being involved and steers me in the right direction.