Did I ever really spend six hours with my face in a book? Was my imagination truly so unfettered from the concerns of everyday life—and, if so, isn’t that a childhood thing, not a technology thing? Twelve-year-old me never had a Google alert wrench her out of [a book] so that she could write her roommate a check for the rent. She definitely wasn’t expected to know what was going on in Syria.

–Katy Waldman longs for the past.

So hey. Maybe it’s not technology that’s to blame for your inability to focus on a single text for hours and hours at a time. Maybe it’s, yanno. The fact that you’re older now and have a shitload more things to think about than when you were, like, ten.

The real test of this one, I guess, will be in another thirty or so years time, when the Kindle reading kids of today are… complaining about how they just can’t get into the latest holoVR port of To Kill a Mockingbird and, gods. Wasn’t reading just so much easier when it was just e-ink and little plastic tablets, back before the brain-chip implants connecting them to the global knowledge hivemind just ruined their concentration. I mean, seriously. Do you remember the smell of a freshly opened Kindle? They just don’t make ’em like that anymore, and whatever happened to Amazon.com anyway? These new psy-activated prescient on-demand product replicators just don’t have the same feel as sitting on the couch at home in your underpants at 3am, clicking away on product pages, trying to decide what you wanted. God. The past was just so much better.

What? Go back? Are you fucking kidding me! They hadn’t even cured cancer back then, and they still used gas in their cars! I’d be dead from HFCS poisoning within an hour!

Sheesh. Some people.