My very dear Internet,
This is so difficult for me to say. We have spent every day together for years. You’re here when I wake up. You promise me songs and beautiful pictures of wildflowers and live video of Loch Ness just in case the monster decides to show up. We’ve shared cups of hot cocoa together as you tell me about stargazing and different diseases of the body and how best to deal with grief. I sneak to you after everybody else is in bed because I want to watch Sleepthief’s “Eurydice” video or because I need to know what’s going on in the Twitterverse. You make sure that I’m never alone, even when I’m feeling my most lonely. For this, I thank you.
But you’re starting to intrude, darling Internet. No longer content to take refuge in the corners of my mind, you’re trying to force your way into parts of my day where you simply don’t belong. Dinners are not for you. Family time is for unplugging, not for the little one to be watching Dinosaur Train incessantly. I don’t want to hear your dings, chirps, bongs, or diddly doos when guests are over, or when I’m talking to my mother on the phone, or especially when my husband and I start dividing up the chore list. Seriously? I love the Bed Intruder song as much (or more) than the next person, but I don’t need it to suddenly start playing when my daughter is saying her prayers.
I realized that things had gone too far when my husband screamed “Leeeerrroooooooy Jeeeeeeeeenkins!” as he raced the car across the road. My life has become a meme. I see Prancing Cera everywhere. I think Sad Keanu lives in the public park down the street. He really does look that sad.
I didn’t mind it, not really. That is, until I realized that you, sweet Internet, had started to disrupt my writing. I was working on a story and then stopped in the middle to check my email! Update my status! Write a blog post! Write THIS blog post. You’ve gone too far. You’ve started to seep into the most priceless of things. My family time and my writing time are off-limits to you.
You broke my trust, treasured one. You stole my time from me, and time is one of the most precious commodities that I have. It isn’t reasonable to quit you completely, and I don’t think that either of us want that. But there are new boundaries, and I require you to respect them. From 9:00 to 11:00 at night, every night, you will be turned off. I shall write during this time, while the rest of the house slumbers, and even if I dream of you and pine for you, we must keep our distance.
You are good for me. I am good for you. But only within reason. When you take away my writing, you take away my heart. I know you don’t want this to come between us, O Internet, and I love you dearly for it. Thank you for understanding. Play with your other friends during this most sacred of times, but please, I beg of you to let me be.
With all of the love that I have in my heart,
PS If you could find me an amazing lavender cookie recipe, I’d be most grateful.
Mercedes, I really enjoyed this post. I think it rings true for most of us, unfortunately.
This post is so spot on, Mercedes. Ahhh, the joy and torment of the net. 🙂
Ha, very nice. That darned internet! *shakes fist in the air.* I remember when a status update was walking down the block and screaming to your friend’s bedroom window, “I’m going to the arcade!” I remember when a “meme” was raising you hand in class because you reeeaaaalllllly knew the answer: “Me, me, oh me!”
All is forgiven, lovely Mercedes. And here, a token of my regard for you: http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Lavender-Cookies/detail.aspx
Mercedes, I understand that the internet is an intrusion in our daily lives and keeps us from our writing. I hope that you find peace in shutting the internet down from 9 to 11. I wish you all the best.
Unplugging is so freeing (alright, it’s freaking frustrating, but freeing sounds so uplifting and wonderful). However, unplugging is altogether necessary. So unplug away!!!!!!!!!!!!!