Hmm. My phone won’t turn on. It was plugged in all night. Turn on. TURN ON TURN ON. Is this real life? I’ll try another outlet.

Nope. Not charging. No tiny red LED, no nothing. Shit. No facebook updates, no tweets, no instagrammed dinner plates. So… I guess… start the day?

“What time is it?!?” What do I look like, wife? A sundial? Am I counting sands through the hourglass? Do YOU know what time it is? Last time I checked YOUR PHONE WAS STILL WORKING.

Gotta leave for work. Luckily there’s A WORKING CLOCK ON MY OVEN BECAUSE THAT’S 20TH CENTURY CONVENIENCE.

I’m commuting to work on my bike and I can’t track it with Strava. What’s the point of even riding a bike? I’m not doing this to save the environment for chrissakes. I need my thumbs up from that guy I did the Paradise Loop with one time 3 years ago. A DAY WITHOUT VIRTUAL VALIDATION IS A DAY WITHOUT VIRTUE.

Pump the brakes, son! A unique photo opportunity has presented itself and it’s screaming for a crema filter! Misery may love company but a smartphone would solve all her problems.

Wait, am I late for my train? Am I early for my train? Is that my train? There’s an actual CLOCK TOWER HERE! GREAT SCOTT! It IS my train. Hustle hustle hustle, no time to swipe my card. I made it but now I’m a common criminal. I’m going to prison. I’m going to prison. Please, conductor man, don’t check my pass, don’t check my pass. Don’t. Check. My. Pass.

I’m on the train and I’m staring into the dark abyss of my own mortality. Everyone else is looking at their phones. I’m the only one without a phone. I hope no one looks at me and notices. I just have to get through these 20 minutes. Holy shit… that guy is wearing sunglasses ON TOP of his reading glasses. Two pairs of glasses at once. I can’t even take a surreptitious photo to text to my wife. I can’t share this with anyone. NO ONE WILL BELIEVE ME.

I made it to Mountain View but I’m still 2 miles from the office. I can’t take Uber, can I, INTERNET OF USELESS THINGS NOWHERE NEAR ME? “Welcome to Silicon Valley, pied piper. Enjoy your fucking taxi.”

I’m at the office, I’m online, I’m starring, fave-ing, hearting everything in sight. The fog lifted, the tinfoil hat removed and now even the pictures of the ugly babies are a glorious revelation.

Lunch time. LUNCH. EFFFFFFF. The EAT club order window closed with nary a notification. No one told me and now I have no lunch. I am literally starving to death. I am eating Cliff Bars, Fage, and pre-shelled hard-boiled eggs and I AM STARVING FOR A PALEO-FRIENDLY TURKEY POLPETTE GODDAMMNITT.

You know what’s great about sitting in a toilet stall alone with your thoughts on why we still haven’t invented the three sea shells solution? NOTHING. ABSO-POSI-FUCKING-TIVUTELY NOTHING. 50 year olds wearing 3-pleat Dockers don’t leave the newspaper sports section in bathrooms anymore BECAUSE NO ONE WITHIN 25 MILES UNDERSTANDS THE FIRST HALF OF THIS SENTENCE.

Taxi back to the train station. Go home. Retreat. But I have no podcasts. I have NO IDEA what Jon Favreau (not that Jon Favreau) and Jon Lovett (not Jon Lovitz) have to say about the stupid things Donald Trump did this week. How will I get my humorous yet informative Keeping-it-1600-hot-takes? The cumulative learnings of civilization are cruising maddeningly by in the left lane WHICH IS FOR PASSING ONLY YOU TRANSPLANTED JERSEY TROGLODYTE of the information superhighway and I’m staring at the vanishing point of the northbound tracks of the Mountain View CalTrain station like a Morlock. I am the lone Morlock surrounded by beautiful, informed, entertained, neck-strained, Eloi.

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