Dear Diary: The Day The Internet Died

Los Alamos

Dear Diary,

I’m on what feels like day 56 of no internet, yet it’s somehow only been 4 hours. Time is passing slowly, but how does one even measure time if not by episodes of Grey’s Anatomy streamed on Netflix? What even IS time, anymore?

I built a bookcase I intended to let sit in it’s box for several weeks. I think I completed it in approximately one episode of Grey’s – which is, I think, 45 (?) minutes in Non-Internet Time. I’m proud that I built it, but that box had become my sole companion during these dark times. Now I’m so very alone. I walked around my house to try to find the best cell phone signal to be able to check Keep it Local and see who else was complaining about not having internet. I considered leaving the house to wander the parking lot listlessly in my rain poncho with my cell phone held to the heavens, but ultimately decided not to put on pants. I’ve moved from my office chair to my couch twice. I checked the fridge four times. Nothing ever changes, and it’s so painful.

“Ha, ha, ha! What A silly, funny life,” I say to myself in the mirror, faking a smile as the tears run down my face. “Everything is fine and good. Ha, ha. ha!” I simply can’t survive a moment longer. I’d rather wait in the Smith’s Pharmacy line than not have internet for even one more minute. I’d rather get an incorrect order at McDonald’s, or have the county trails closed again… I’d rather be run over by a feral cow, near the horse stables – the gentle aroma of dung wafting in the air. I’d rather the old hotel stay decrepit and standing forever, complete with yellow police tape. I’d pay $.50/gal more at a gas station up here than those ninnypickers at the bottom of the hill just to be able to refresh my Reddit homepage. I’d rent my condo to the lab (at a premium) as “office space” (no internet included) and sleep in my car in the Jemez Mountains. I’d rather Time Out reopen and then close again just as I’m about to place an order. I’d rather decorate my yard with filled dog poop bags that someone else refused to throw out. Hell, I’d rather be sued by Sirphey than have to endure another moment of this internetless hellscape.

That’s it for now, diary. Going to go paint this message on the rock.

Xoxo, Sally “Out of State Agitator” Foster

PS This diary entry took me what would have been approximately 1/5 of an episode of Grey’s to write, or 9 minutes in Non-Internet Time. For the record.