I am not by any means a technology person. If I had my way, I would have a land line, a pager, and at this point, a flipping modem. That crackly connection sound is almost soothing in an environment that involves me calling multiple people to fix problems I didn’t create, in a world where people are lined up OVERNIGHT to get a new iPhone, which, last time around (and the time before, and the time before that ad nauseam) is just a phone. Which growing up, I used in order to call people. Because it’s a phone.
I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in your smile.
The only thing better than calling tech support is when the person you are talking to (which, by the way to their benefit did call a few seconds after I asked the question online) is when they say things like, “Do you have a different browser you can use?” or, “this website says…” News flash. I know how to Google. Because I was born in the last century. And no, I will not uninstall my ad blocking or tracking software, because you don’t get to know where I am and what I am looking at because it’s none of your damned business.
And I get no privacy. Cue ’80s music.
So now I get to watch my Hulu on a Friday night solo (I know, I need a husband, or a martini, or both) on some rando browser after resetting all of my damned passwords and whatnot because the Interwebs are against me. I feel like I live in some perverse version of the Matrix where no matter what I do, the behind-the-scenes machines are working not only towards my untimely samurai demise, but actively determining how to make the human hull I live in into a battery. Freals.
It keeps going. And going. And going…
Until next time, stay classy (and unplug yourself for a change) Salt Lake.