“But I need to see my Likes! I should check to see if anyone reacted to my comment in Old Guys Who Like Old Comics or that thread about Madge the Palmolive Lady.”
My self looked at me askance. “Yesterday, when you banged your head against the dining room light fixture, are you should you didn’t hurt anything?”
“You may be right,” I admitted. “I do feel a little bit like I’ve been dipping into the silly sauce today.”
“Oh, you’re OK,” my self replied. “If you’re able to feel anything, you’re still able to shake off the social media numbness. Hey, cut that out.”
“I saw you flicking your finger up your phone screen when you’re supposed to be talking to me.”
“It’s called swiping.”
“That’s a good word for it — It’s always swiping your consciousness until your brain’s in a coma.”
“Har har. What do you suggest I do?”
“Turn that damn thing off,” my self said. “The desktop, too. Write with a pen for a week. See what comes out when you’re completely off the grid.”
“But what if somebody calls?”
“Fine: Turn it on once a day, just to check your messages. Keep it off the other 23 hours and 55 minutes.”
“But I need to use the electronics for work!”
My self rolled his eyes. “You can’t do it, can you?”
“I can’t stop working!” I whined.
My self sighed. “Just stop doing social media for a week. Can you manage that?”
“A whole week?”
“Oh, for the love of Aunt Petunia. How about for an hour? and then a day? and then two, three days until you get to seven?”
“Well, maybe …”
“Trust me, your head will clear, your eyes will defog, and your reasoning will start to get sharper.”
“You’re trying to suggest that scrolling endlessly through posts dulls my mind,” I said. “But I do learn some interesting stuff sometimes.”
“Stuff like —?”
“Like I’m not the only guy who remembers Madge.”
I heard someone growl in frustration, and I’m pretty sure it was my self.
P.S. Full is live. Paperback on June 15.