Beyond an acknowledgement of our perverse compulsion (Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself!) there has been very little in the way of exploring deeper – least of all in the world of fiction writing. In Jia Tolentino’s widely beloved essay collection Trick Mirror, she describes her social media activity as “a rat pressing the lever… masturbating through the nightmare until I finally catch the gasoline whiff of a good meme”. Even in literature – a medium that is years behind television and film in its portrayal of life online – our masochism is well documented. Saying the internet is bad but addictive is a cliche. Now all my ads are for goofy blue glasses why is my ad blocker not working? Why am I still here, on the internet? It makes our eyes hurt – maybe we should get those goofy blue glasses that are supposed to block the harmful waves. It’s also too bright and the night-shift is too yellow. Time goes fast but not in the way that it flies when you’re having fun, more like when you wake up after a nap to find that it’s suddenly dark outside. We are miserable and unproductive and lonely all at once.
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