I can’t even look at my phone right now because if I do I’ll see the notifications from some woman in the Philippines named Marites who is currently more responsible for my heartbeat than I am. It’s 2 AM and I’m sitting in my kitchen in this house—this big, old, drafty house that my grandfather built in a town where the most exciting thing that happens is the seasonal opening of the Dairy Queen—and I am absolutely livid. I’m furious. I’m so ANGRY I could put my fist through the drywall, but I won’t, because then I’d have to ask Marites to find me a contractor since I can’t even figure out how to buy a bag of flour without someone telling me which brand is on sale. Everyone in this town thinks I’m the success story, you know? They see me at the post office and they say, “Oh, you’re doing so well with that computer work,” and I just nod and smile like a complete fraud. They think I’m some high-powered executive because I wear a button-down shirt once a week, but the truth is I’m a child. I am a twenty-six-year-old child who earns more money than the mayor but can’t decide when to take a shower. I can’t decide when to eat. I can’t even decide when to stop working and go to sleep unless a notification pops up on my screen saying “TIME TO REST” because I paid a stranger three dollars an hour to tell me to be a human being. It didn’t start like this, or maybe it did, I don’t know, I’ve always been a bit... scattered. My mom used to say I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached, which is a classic thing to say in a place like this, very salt-of-the-earth, very charming until you realize it’s a terrifying prophecy. I started freelancing because there are literally three businesses in this county and two of them are gas stations, and I thought I was being smart. I thought I was being efficient, but really I was just delegating my entire brain to someone else. I’ve reached a point where I don’t have a single thought that hasn't been filtered through a spreadsheet first. Not one single thought. Last Tuesday was the breaking point, or it should have been, but here I am. The internet went out because a branch fell on the line down by the creek—the same creek where I used to catch crawfish when I was a kid and life was simple—and I just sat there. I sat at my desk for four hours. I didn't move. I didn't get a glass of water. I didn't even stand up to pee because my calendar didn't tell me it was time for a break. I just stared at the blank screen like a lobotomized sheep because Marites wasn't there to tell me what the next step was. I felt this heat rising up my neck, this burning, suffocating heat, because I realized that without a woman five thousand miles away, I don't actually exist. I'm just a meat suit sitting in a chair. My girlfriend, Sarah—she’s a nurse, she actually DOES things, she helps people stay alive—she came over and found me just sitting there in the dark. She asked what was wrong and I couldn't even explain it. How do you tell the woman you want to marry that you’re paralyzed because your virtual assistant is offline? I told her I was "thinking about a project" but she looked at me with that look, that pitying look that everyone in this town gives the "smart kids" who never left or the ones who came back. She saw my list. I left it on the counter. It had things on it like "Drink 8oz water" and "Check mail" and "Tell Sarah she looks nice." She didn’t say anything, but she saw it. I know she saw it. She just walked back into the kitchen and I heard her sigh, and that sigh was louder than any scream. It made me want to break every piece of technology I own. I’m so angry that I’ve let myself become this... this dependent, hollowed-out version of a person. I grew up in the woods, for god's sake. My dad taught me how to fix a tractor when I was ten, and now I’m paying for a "Daily Life Management Package" because I can't remember to buy toilet paper. I have no autonomy. No autonomy at all. It’s pathetic. It’s just pathetic. I’m supposed to be the one who made it out, the one who didn’t end up working at the mill like my cousins, but at least my cousins know how to spend their Tuesday afternoons without a PDF guide. I spend all day writing copy for tech startups in San Francisco and then I spend my nights staring at a schedule that tells me when to brush my teeth. Every single night, every night, I look at that list and I hate myself. I hate the way the cursor blinks. I hate the way the notifications sound. I hate that I’ve turned my life into a series of tickets to be closed. And the worst part is, I’m going to do it again tomorrow. I’m going to wake up at 8:00 AM because the alarm will go off, and I’ll check my email to see what Marites has planned for my "optimal day," and I’ll follow it like a good little dog.