I think the robots heard (saw?) that I was denouncing their robotic sex vending shenanigans (great name for a band) and now there is nothing but chaste spam in my folder. Really. It all concerns itself with search engine optimization, and it’s written with a very concerned tone, as if the spam robot is my concerned elderly aunt and I am wearing a hopelessly frumpy dress. You have a very lovely figure, my dear, if only you would show it. Let me take you over to Mrs. Schneider’s so that you can have your colours done. The internets will never ask you out or tell all the nice people googling ‘hard bitch daycare’ to come see you if you don’t do something about the way you look . . .
My neighbors, who are unlike me in every way – wealthy, angry, not above standing in the bushes with a flashlight at midnight if they think you have someone over – have internet.
Therefore I have internet. And, also, therefore I do internet yoga; which (for the uninitiated) is a series of poses in which one stretches many tendons to their limit while tilting a laptop in various directions. One direction will prove most auspicious and yield the most bars – and then you hold.
It’s very efficient exercise, even if it does make one arm bigger than the other.