01: The Nostalgia.
I miss when people just knocked on my door instead of texting, Here.
When phones were attached to walls and had cords that tangled like dreams.
When toasters toasted, full stop — no Bluetooth, no firmware, no push notifications from your kitchen appliances subscriptions.
Now everything wants to optimize me — track me, nudge me, shame me with condescending water droplet emojis.
I see you’ve only had 10 oz today.
Well, I used to drink from the hose, you bast***.
In Poland. With Russian tanks on the streets.
For some damn reason, socks keep disappearing in the laundry, but now — 4 instead of 1.
Therefore, everything is faster and hungrier.
Time has teeth / of quantum perversion.
Yesterday, my husband found his ancient CD player, and I was like: SELL IT TO ME, M’Love (I showed him my naked breast) because clearly, he wasn’t about to gift that kind of power away.
( Btw, he didn’t. My breasts aren’t in their twenties. )
I don’t miss the slow-loading websites, though.
Let them stay buried with dial-up tones and blinking cursors—ghosts from a slower, crustier dimension.
But I’m still following my husband around, half-dressed and bargaining like a sweaty antique dealer.
Eventually, he’ll cave.
They always do.
02: Reframing.
I don’t miss when people just knocked on my door. Now they text “Here,” and I get a tangible 30-second buffer to decide if I want to interact or fake death. Glorious. Be on my feet, CONCUR fear, M.
Phones with cords tangled like an octopus — no thanks. I only scroll sleek, void-like glowing rectangles that let me avoid 98% of humanity while still watching raccoons open trash cans in 4K.
6K is here, silly.
I like knowing my subscription-based sourdough toaster is browning with the algorithmic precision of my B(yes, capital B!)luetooth toothbrush, and I’m syncing my appliances with Musk’s satellites and paying double, and you are POOR!
Only 10 oz of water today?
— That’s 10 more than 2003 Marta, who lived on iced coffee and denial.
I don’t miss the slow-loading websites, either. Let them rot in the digital underworld with dial-up modems, cursed pop-up ads, and that haunted blinking cursor ticking like a passive-aggressive metronome, reminding you of every unfinished thought you’ve ever had.
We didn’t evolve to buffer.
We came to chaos (verb).
I’m just nervous about the avatars and egregores we’ve created on old Facebooks because — THEY LIVE — in a pixelated purgatory, alone, and jealous.
Socks still vanish in the laundry, but now they do it in teams.
Organized. Determined like politicians.
It’s not laundry anymore, it’s a jailbreak, and I’m just outsmarted by a talking laundromat and cotton socks.
I respect it.
They’re chasing freedom.
I’m just chasing inbox zero.
