On the 1975’s A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships, there’s an interlude called ‘the man who married a robot’. It tells the story of a man, snowflakesmasher86, who enters into a relationship with The Internet.
This is a story about a lonely, lonely man
He lived in a lonely house, on a lonely street
In a lonely part of the world
But, of course, he had the internet
The internet, as you know was his friend
You could say his best friend
They would play with each other everyday
Watching videos of humans doing all sorts of things
Having sex with each other
Informing people on what was wrong with them and their life
Playing games with young children at home with their parents
One day, the man, whose name was @SnowflakeSmasher86
Turned to his friend, the internet, and he said, “Internet, do you love me?”
The internet looked at him and said, “Yes
I love you very, very, very, very, very, very much
I am your best friend
In fact, I love you so much that I never, ever want us to be apart, ever again, ever”
“I would like that”, said the man
And so they embarked on a life together
Wherever the man went, he took his friend
The man and the internet went everywhere together
Except, of course, the places where the internet could not go
They went to the countryside
They went to birthday parties of the children of some of his less important friends
Different countries, even the moon
When the man got sad, his friend had so many clever ways to make him feel better
He would get him cooked animals
And show him the people having sex again
And he would always, always agree with him
This one was the man’s favorite and it made him very happy
The man trusted his friend so much
“I feel like I could tell you anything, “ he said, on a particularly lonely day
“You can, you can tell me anything
I’m your best friend, anything you say to me will stay strictly between you and the internet”
And so he did, the man shared everything with his friend
All of his fears and desires
All of his loves, past and present
All of the places he had been and was going, and pictures of his penis
He would tell himself, “Man does not live by bread alone”
And then he died in his lonely house, on the lonely street, in that lonely part of the world.
You can go on his Facebook
For the last 20 years, we’ve reassured ourselves that man does not live by bread alone. We’ve bathed in the luxuries of Uber Eats, of Spotify, of Instagram, of the Trainline app. We rejoice over the progress we’ve made. Subscribe to the Flora app! For 8.99 a month, it’ll boost your productivity by 11x. Whatever that means.
Inconvenience is the enemy of productivity, we taught ourselves. What kind of dusty, ancient creature loads up a CD? Presses play on a DVD streamer? Get it on Netflix, on Spotify. Pay to skip the ads, of course. You shouldn’t have to wait thirty seconds to hear that song. We’ve given ourselves instant media, under the guise that it’s cheaper and more efficient, and aren’t the arts just this profoundly human and meaningful endeavour that everyone deserves unlimited access to anyway? Never mind that we’re engaging with less of it than ever. Never mind that it’s probably cheaper to buy a CD of that album you really like, to buy your favourite box-set and watch it until the disk snaps, than it is to pay for access. Because that’s what a streaming service is. You’re paying for access, for the recommended albums that you might listen to. If you can find the time. Paying for the ‘we think you’ll like’ carousel on Netflix. And that’s great if you’re willing to use it. Having a global collection of new and past music available instantly and in the best digital quality achievable is magical, if you use it. But don’t pay for access, for the off chance that you might stumble across it on a particularly boring day. Buy the album. Own the album.
The man is born in a lonely house, on a lonely street, in a lonely part of the world. And he dies in that lonely house, on that lonely street, in that lonely part of the world. But his Facebook, his digital footprint, persists. Long after we’re gone, our stories will be liked. Our tweets used to posthumously cancel us. People will comment on our TikToks. We won’t be able to attend to our Snapchat streaks.
We’re pretty simple creatures. Fifty years ago, if you wanted to make plans with someone, you had to have a little faith. Call, set a time and a place, get yourself there, and hope they show up. No sending them your eta, a quick text to let them know that the bus is running late. Our brains aren’t built for the algorithm onslaught of travel photos, party highlights, and relationship statuses. Look at this fun party you weren’t invited to. Look at this marathon I ran while you were stuffing your face with popcorn on the couch. Look at the celebrity I met. Implicit in all these posts, reaffirmed by every story-like and supportive comment, I’m better than you. How could the peaks and troughs of your ordinary life compare to another’s curated highlights?
We know this. We preach it to others. We smear rumours of facetune and filters to comfort our distraught and envious friends. And yet, when we lie in bed and scroll, pressing our necks against the headboard to give ourselves that reels-induced double chin, we let ourselves feel bad. We make ourselves feel bad, pinch the thumbful on the side of our bellies and wonder why we don’t have the kind of fat-free vascularity that makes our stomachs look like a game of snakes and ladders. We wonder what’s wrong with us, that we don’t get invited to these parties where everyone’s beautiful and confident and always, always smiling. Never mind that it was Kim Kardashian’s baby shower, and you don’t run in the same circles. There’s a problem with you for not being there. It was something you did. Slaves to the algorithm, goes the phrase cited so often that it’s now meaningless. But we are.
But now, all over YouTube, we’re breaking up with our phones. We’re dumping The Internet.
Video essay after video essay, decrying the need for digital nomadism. Decentralise your phone! Delete social media! Buy a notepad! People trying to go 30 days without a phone. Buying an alarm clock. Keeping a physical calendar.
We’re finally becoming disenfranchised with the Algorithm. Slowly, purposefully, we’re waking up to the chokehold that the never-ending pit of titkoks has over us. We’re seeking intentionality again, seeking real human connection and conversation. Putting the phone away at the dinner table. Making eye contact. Asking for directions.
We’re feeling the urge to just be done with it all. Watch a sunset without taking a picture of it. Socrates didn’t want to write any philosophy down, because when you write something down, you don’t have to remember it. When you take pictures, and snap and share and post and upload, you don’t have to remember it. You don’t have to experience it, as long as your followers do. How selfless.
No wonder flip phones made a comeback. Yes, it was cool; it was trendy, it was an aesthetic. But buried in amongst the posers, some genuinely want to disconnect. To give it all up, get a brick phone, and move out to a log cabin in the woods. With animals and open doors and record players. Vinyls and CDs and cassettes and instruments. Make music, physical music, and record it physically. We’re social creatures, sure. We can’t thrive in prolonged solitude. But rather than taking that need for connection and using it to justify a daily post, we’re seeking sincerity. We’re looking for someone to escape to the log cabin with.
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