Bokelskere.no

Don't you realize the Internet is just a way for millions of sad people to be completely alone together?

"I know who you are, Gladstone."
"I'm sorry, but . . . do I know you?"
[...]
"Yeah, I think you do," he said with all the arrogance of a five-hundred-word Reddit comment.

Jeeves searched his memory for the most widespread memes of the last few years.
"Two Girls One Cup? Lemon Party?" I offered.
"Those are the first that occured to you?" he asked. "Christ, Gladstone. Did you destroy the Internet just to get rid of your cookies? No. I was gonna say something like LOLcats."

It was the most successful re-creation of the Internet I'd seen yet. Like looking at one horrible car accident after another, all of which somehow gave you an inexplicable and shameful erection.

I observed something interesting: New Yorkers are much more helpful to provocatively dressed twenty-four-year old Australian girls than they are to men over thirty dressed in crumpled sports jackets and reeking of Scotch.

Harder to ignore, however, are the Twatters. Clever, huh? That's what we're calling Twitter addicts now. Losing the internet has forced them to interact verbally instead of microblogging their lives, but a lot of them still talk in Tweets:
"Ugh! I'm standing in line at the post office."
"I'm not eating the crusts on my sandwich because apparently I'm five."
"Oh, my god, the barista didn't leave room for milk, like some sort of ax murderer."

We had taken the F train into the city to look for the Internet, and the only thing stupider than writing that was actually doing it.

I was slow to respond, and not just because Tobey was no eating from my jar of peanut butter, assisted only by his finger, but because nothing about this made sense. Online, Tobey was a name. A green dot. A series of sarcastic, meta-humerous messages that broke the monotony of my day. But in my kitchen, he was a twenty-nine-year-old man-child who blinked a little too often and moved with more energy than was required to accomplish any task.