It’s getting heated over here, y’all. I’m currently mid-epic standoff with our wifi, and I think he’s about to win. I’ve unplugged and re-plugged an excessive amount of times, and yet PrettyFlyForAWifi is all “nah, I’m going to be spotty and unreliable at best.” He’s being a total dick. I’d like to take a moment to thank him for transporting me back to the early days in New York when we’d have to “borrow” wifi from our neighbours, also known as the urban equivalent to “lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor.”

This has been going on for a few days now, and it’s seriously starting to test my patience. Amid the frustration and oiled up Greco/Roman-style wrestling which, naturally, we’ve resorted to, it has allowed me to have a pretty stunning realisation – I’ve morphed into a fly.

No, not literally. It’s not like there’s some poo-circling, garbage-dwelling insect that’s, like, hijacked my soul in the attempts to study mankind for the fly planet, Insectopolis. I wouldn’t dare reveal the synopsis of my next novel all nonchalant like that. You guys know me – I loves the drama of a big build-up.

Screen Shot 2015-12-01 at 2.44.02 p.m.

I’m referring, of course, to my dwindling attention span. It’s, like, rapidly shrinking. It’s astounding, actually. Circus-worthy, a marvel that could easily take on the Bearded Lady and be like, “Suck it, Whiskers. I intend to halve my body weight in under an hour; can your follicles grow at the same rate? Didn’t think so. You should probs retire.”

I know I’m hardly the first to make this observation, and we’ve all noticed our attention spans struggling to keep up with the pace of technology. I, for one, can’t do yoga without texting, Instagramming and learning French via DuoLingo. I listen to podcasts while making breakfast, doing my makeup and reading on my Kindle. It takes me about three days to watch a movie that’s barely 1.5 hours long, the process entirely unbearable for me since I have to shut off all other stimuli to catch the nuances.

Like, what? Apparently, I now need multiple stimuli to get through one activity. I’m so opposed to what I’ve become.

My faulty Wifi has empowered me to return to a much simpler time.

I’d like to invite you to join me.

A time when we’d have to stretch the cord of our phone down the hall if we cared to catch some dialogue from Saved by the Bell. We’d be annoyed when all we’d hear was Belding’s laugh, but it would have to do.

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Behold: microbraids. Sadly don’t have digital photos of me wearing them but apparently this is the price Christina paid for coming up in the 90s/early 2000s

A time when we’d have go to the local drugstore to print photos and be horrified if the cute teenage photo lab worker saw some unflattering photos of our questionable choice to wear microbraids as a sort of would-be Bahamian holiday from the comfort of central Florida. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but we felt like pulling a Costanza soon after to make up for the error in judgement. We’re glad we didn’t.

A time when the clock radio was the only audio content provider, and you were forced to listen to the local station’s decidedly pervy DJ have a local caller bounce her ladyparts into the phone for entertainment. They sounded like bongos, if you’re curious.

Those were the days, right? Take me back.



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