Ah, yes, the art of writing is totally dead. Everyone’s hopping on the podcast bandwagon now, right? "Listen to me talk about whatever while you fold laundry!" They say podcasts have power. They wrap you up in their warm, velvety tones and carry you off to a magical land where your brain doesn’t have to work too hard. I get it. They’re like an audio blanket that you can just snuggle into. But let’s be real: writing’s not dead, it’s just… a little more complicated now.
There’s something about the written word that still holds that old-school mystique. It’s deliberate. It has weight. (And let’s not forget, writers really work for it—there’s a reason we’ve got "writer’s block," which is basically just the literary equivalent of being stuck in quicksand. Slow, agonizing, and usually followed by a snack binge). I mean, every time I sit down to write, I feel like I’m trying to uncover some long-lost treasure, like Indiana Jones, but with a keyboard and no cool hat. Blogging used to feel like that! Every post was a tiny spark of genius. Now? It’s like blogs are those VHS tapes gathering dust in the back of a closet. Outdated. Replaced by influencers and viral dances. I used to carve out my little niche on the web, but now I just watch from the sidelines as everyone’s streaming, snapping, and scrolling their way into oblivion.
And don’t get me started on the doom-scrolling—the endless cycle of digital noise. Sometimes I catch myself thinking I need to keep up, but then I’m like, “Wait. What am I keeping up with? Someone's 8th avocado toast photo?” It’s a vicious cycle, but there’s something oddly therapeutic about writing. No tweets, no likes, no notifications… just me and my notebook, chilling like we’re back in the 90s. And then—bam—I get hit by the modern world.
Take Monday, for example. I’m at M&S, trying to buy some stuff. Standard. I pull out my card, ready to magically make a payment. I’m like a wizard trying to cast a spell—"Abra-cash-dabra!" And... nothing. Nada. Maybe I punched in the PIN wrong? Try again. Still no dice. So, I think, "Okay, fine. I’ll just waltz to the bank and get a new PIN. Easy fix!" But no. It’s like the universe decided it was time for me to learn the true meaning of technology failure. I get to the bank, input my details, and—surprise! Same error message. It’s like I’ve stumbled into a weird digital Bermuda Triangle where nothing works.
Then, to top it off, the cashier scans my card, and I get this delightful little message: “Card needs unlocking.” Oh, great. I felt like I was stuck in a glitchy customer service nightmare, where you just keep pressing 1 for "I don’t know what’s going on either."
In the age of “digital convenience,” I find myself in an endless loop of frustration. I don’t even have a banking app on my phone. Too many hackers, too many shady transactions. I mean, just the other day I was seriously considering starting a “cash under the mattress” fund. I had more luck with that than my card! At this point, it’s like a simple trip to the store requires a PhD in digital wizardry. I long for the good old days when the hardest thing to do was remember your PIN—not spend hours trying to unlock some mystical, encrypted card that feels like it's holding my shopping hostage.
It’s hilarious, really. I just want to buy a sandwich, and suddenly I’m trapped in an episode of The Twilight Zone where everything’s designed to make you feel technologically incompetent. All I wanted was a loaf of bread, but apparently, I need a manual on how to swipe my credit card. It’s the simple things, right?
