- Feb 3, 2024
- LitBits
- 0
New blog post by izi
Dope Junkie
I’m a dope junkie, and I’m spiraling. Scrolling. For hours.
Every evening, you can find me lounging on the couch or sprawling in bed, zoned in on the small screen before me, my thumbing the glass the only motion between the outbursts of laughter and glee. You don’t need to see the screen to know what I’m watching: short-form videos of cats, dogs, adults acting like dogs, children, adults acting like children, etc., etc.
Am I happy? The apparent joy I get from the algorithm-selected content suggests so.
And yet, I’m not. I hate it. Every time I end a session of doom-scrolling after nearly an hour of intending to, I feel sick. Like I’ve devoured a quart of ice cream. Like I’ve polished a bottle of wine. Cue the self-loathing.
I know I’ll feel this torment afterward, but I can’t stop, despite repeated efforts. I set limits. I monitor app access. I leave my phone on Do Not Disturb all day.
Nothing helps. I crave the dopamine. Where’s my phone, damnit! Just this once, I’ll turn off the limits.
On and on. Over and over.
Where are the Shakespeares of our time? The DaVincis? The Bachs? You can find them on their phones, watching someone react to a cockatoo eating a peanut.
In the end, what will domesticate us? How will humanity be sedated and pacified? Not aliens, not nuclear threat, but the inescapable allure of risk-free circus at the touch of a finger.
We can see it, so we can stop it. Or we can Netflix and chill into eternity. To quote a beloved, wooden cowpoke, “That’s not flying. It’s falling with style.”
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Dope Junkie
I’m a dope junkie, and I’m spiraling. Scrolling. For hours.
Every evening, you can find me lounging on the couch or sprawling in bed, zoned in on the small screen before me, my thumbing the glass the only motion between the outbursts of laughter and glee. You don’t need to see the screen to know what I’m watching: short-form videos of cats, dogs, adults acting like dogs, children, adults acting like children, etc., etc.
Am I happy? The apparent joy I get from the algorithm-selected content suggests so.
And yet, I’m not. I hate it. Every time I end a session of doom-scrolling after nearly an hour of intending to, I feel sick. Like I’ve devoured a quart of ice cream. Like I’ve polished a bottle of wine. Cue the self-loathing.
I know I’ll feel this torment afterward, but I can’t stop, despite repeated efforts. I set limits. I monitor app access. I leave my phone on Do Not Disturb all day.
Nothing helps. I crave the dopamine. Where’s my phone, damnit! Just this once, I’ll turn off the limits.
On and on. Over and over.
Where are the Shakespeares of our time? The DaVincis? The Bachs? You can find them on their phones, watching someone react to a cockatoo eating a peanut.
In the end, what will domesticate us? How will humanity be sedated and pacified? Not aliens, not nuclear threat, but the inescapable allure of risk-free circus at the touch of a finger.
We can see it, so we can stop it. Or we can Netflix and chill into eternity. To quote a beloved, wooden cowpoke, “That’s not flying. It’s falling with style.”
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