Once there was a time where my bowel movements happened and all I could do was just sit there and stare at the wall until it was over. With the advent of pocket computers run by obsessive tech-geeks and their billionaire overlords who’s unyielding thirst for data has turned these “smart” phones into little more than addiction-making, content (guh, that word) delivery devices that our helpless little dopamines crave for more and more, rending no bathroom time a screen-less endeavor for the rest of eternity.
Being a vegan for around five years makes your bathroom trips pretty regular and dependable. Frustrated with my stupid fucking phone’s grasp over me I added a book to my bathrooms collection of toiletries in an attempt to break loose from arising in the morning to look straight at a screen. Satan knows the first thing I need to see in the morning is what mega-corporation HBO has decided to call itself and the myriad of pointless opinions on social media about it, or how many spam and bullshit electronic mails my digital inbox has acquired since I left the waking world for the sweet release of nightly slumber.
It worked for a while, but that bastard phone box is a needy beast and it’s grip is vice-like.
So here I am, whiling away in my early forties, my first morning activity spent staring at a little electronic rectangle filled with millions of voices I don’t need to hear, all because big tech companies want to sell me some new doodad or contraption I don’t need, or even want.
Every so often the screen will transition and for brief moment I catch a glimpse of myself in it’s shiny reflection and I wonder, “who the fuck is this person?"