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Fuck the internet and my goddamn addiction to it.

The first thing I do in the morning is to stretch…my hands around the bed for my smartphone, which I had been using until I dozed off last night and it dropped on my face. The moment I found it – tangled in between my pillow and an array of soft toys that are used as substitutes for cuddly boyfriends, evil managers to punch, giant silhouette heroes and monsters fights during insomniac periods, and the occasional snot wiper – I pressed the tiny touch screen buttons and open up some social networking app. It is usually Twitter, and I scan for some newsy stuff before trying to think of something smart to say in 140 characters. Typically, it goes something like this:

    Just woke up. Had a nightmare about buying two hamsters and one of them turned out to be a cat and got scolded by uncle. #whaaat?

I know. Really intellectually challenging stuff. Then I switched on my internet radio to some ad-free channel as I get ready, call a cab, and rushed down to the taxi stand in a flurry of wet hair, half put on makeup, and things hanging out of my bulging handbag. I don’t know what it is that I put in, but the last time I cleaned it a few months ago, I found a pack of half eaten nuts (for rainy days when I get hungry), my wallet, make up kit, train pass, staff pass, tissues, pills for headache and period cramps, a polaroid camera (???), a granola bar (for rainy days), a bottle of water, detox drink packets that taste like dinosaur pee, the chargers for my phone, table, and iPod, and a box of sweets (for rainy days). I could survive in my bag for at least a week, I think.

The moment I throw myself and my self-sufficient handbag into the passenger seat, I fished out my phone again. This time, I check my Twitter timeline more thoroughly and see if anyone has ‘Favorited’ my last tweet, try not to cry if they haven’t, close Twitter, open up Facebook, and checked if anyone has posted anything outrageous, including my father. Especially my father. He has a tendency to claim that he’s 25 years old, which is stupid because I’m 22.

Then I arrived at work, and I switched my laptop to check my blog statistics, my Tumblr posts, Justin Bieber’s latest antics, my four different emails accounts, Google ‘How to make yourself go viral on the internet’, realise that there is nothing I can do short of making myself look really idiotic in front of a camera (which I am already doing daily, surprisingly) and turned on a Youtube playlist. Sometimes I like to pretend to be classy and play Mozart and Tchaikovsky, but I usually get bored after about four minutes and switch to Kanye West. I really like that song about ‘the same people that tried to black ball me forgot about two things: my black balls.’ Really, really, deep stuff. Metaphorically speaking of course.

I’m a busy girl; I work in the day, take a part-time degree class at night, and work on my writing when I come home. But somewhere in between all these, I had found some time to tweet, text, surf the net, talk to my father on Facebook and ignore him over the phone, tweet some more, watch Youtube videos, tweet, and most of all, get myself addicted to the internet. My hands twitch when I’m not typing, my eyes burn when I’m not scrolling down a wall or a timeline, and my heart trembles at the prospect of receiving a romantic emoticon on Snapchat/Whatsapp.

I know, I know. Times have changed. If Shakespeare was still alive, he would say: Wifi, Wifi, where forth art thou? My black ball are a burnin’.