I wake up and before I even move, before I even stretch, before I acknowledge the existence of the room around me, I reach for my phone. It’s not even a decision—it’s muscle memory, some primal, Pavlovian impulse. My hand, fumbling over the nightstand, finds the smooth, familiar shape, and there’s a brief flicker of anticipation before my thumb presses the button. The screen glows. The world opens.
I don’t check the time. I check notifications. The dopamine drip starts early: three texts, one missed call, a handful of emails, a notification that someone I don’t remember following posted a new photo of their overpriced meal at a restaurant I’ll never go to. I see it, I absorb it, I keep scrolling.
Instagram. Twitter. TikTok. News. Reddit. Some subconscious part of me keeps track of the order, the cycle, like a dealer arranging their supply. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, but my thumb moves mechanically, eyes scanning, absorbing—laughing at memes I won’t remember, getting mildly annoyed at headlines I won’t read, clicking through photos of people I don’t really like living lives that seem vaguely better than mine.
It’s 8:12 AM. I’m still in bed. My mouth is dry. My bladder is full. I keep scrolling.
The thing is, I’m not even enjoying it. That’s the worst part. Or maybe the best. There’s no real feeling attached to it. No joy, no anger, just… something to do. It’s like watching static on a TV that never turns off. And yet, I can’t stop.
I get out of bed, phone in hand, still scrolling as I brush my teeth, still scrolling as I let the shower run for five full minutes before getting in. I let my coffee go cold because I start reading a thread about some scandal involving a YouTuber I’ve never heard of.
At work, I pretend to be busy while I scroll under my desk. I listen to people talk, nodding at appropriate intervals, eyes darting down whenever I think I can get away with it. A group chat explodes with messages and I feel an urgent, immediate need to read every single one, as if they contain the secrets of the universe and not just people sending the same joke in slightly different variations.
Lunch break. I sit alone at a cafe, scrolling between bites. I feel a deep, almost existential sadness watching a family at the next table talk to each other instead of staring at their phones. I think about putting mine away. I don’t.
The afternoon is a blur of screens. My phone, my laptop, my phone again. A coworker says something funny and I think about tweeting it, but I don’t, because I know it won’t get engagement and there’s nothing more pathetic than a dead tweet.
By 7 PM, I tell myself I need a break. I should read a book. Watch a movie. Go for a walk. Do something real. I sit on the couch, determined to disconnect. I stare at the ceiling for exactly thirty-two seconds before I grab my phone and open TikTok.
One video. Then another. Then another. Thirty seconds turns into thirty minutes, turns into three hours. I’m watching someone deep-fry a whole cheeseburger. I’m watching a guy explain the history of a war I’ve never heard of. I’m watching some girl cry about a breakup in her car. I don’t know any of these people. I will never think about them again.
And yet, I keep scrolling.
At some point, my eyes start to hurt. My brain feels full but empty at the same time. It’s midnight. I’ve done nothing today except exist in pixels.
I put my phone down. I close my eyes. Sleep comes quickly, and in the darkness, my hand twitches—fingers mimicking the motion of scrolling.
Tomorrow, I’ll do it all again.