I once dated a girl who was a cyborg.
Ok, almost. More like a pseudo-cyborg. She didn’t have breast-mounted lasers, but she did have a smartphone – one that was always within easy reach, so she could check her Facebook and Twitter accounts at a moment’s notice. You know, in case there was an internet emergency or something. She used to get severely twitchy and anxious whenever she had to step away from the phone for any length of time.
Even in the bedroom, the Series of Tubes called to her. There were many times that my post-coital torpor would be punctured by the sound of fingers furiously tapping away on a tiny keyboard. That is not a euphemism, by the way.
I’m not entirely sure what that says about my capability as a lover, but that’s kind of beside the point… It could go either way, I suppose:
OMG, that was amazing! #exhausted #multipleorgasms; or So bored. I wonder if there’s any humus left in the fridge? #yawn #hungry #unsatisfied,
Anyway, the thing that struck me – apart from the empty humus container – was how much of her life was lived online. I often got the feeling that the things she did were simply status updates in the making, rather than engaging activities in their own right. There were times when she conspicuously absent, even though she was still in the room.
I have seen the future and it has a faraway look in its eyes. And big thumbs.