I know it’s been a while since you and I spoke. Well, I’ve been thinking about ‘us’, and have decided to write to ask the question that has plagued me all my adult life: why did you pass me over? Why do you avoid and evade me? Why do you jump over me like a leapfrog, impossible to catch up with?

I just don’t get it. I am only 24. I was born in the nineties for goodness sake – we are supposed to be friends! Well, Modern Technology, I think it’s time you understood how your actions make me feel. I call upon the power of anecdote to convey the emotion:

Ambushed by a bored and slightly drunken housemate as I returned home on Saturday night, I am begged into going out. Smiling at the near-empty bottle of sparkling rose, I agree. We quickly dry shampoo our hair (one of your modern advances I understand and appreciate), and double up on our eyeliner. Looking through my empty wardrobe, recently voided of all ill-fitting party dresses, I turn on the black bag in the corner of the lounge room, waiting patiently to be taken to the op shop. Rummaging through, I grab the least-offensively-short garment inside and commence the expedition to be… in it. Additional help and all evacuation of breath are required to get the zip up. After ‘Britney Spearsing’ the doorman upon exiting the taxi at Crown, I appreciated again why it was in the op shop bag.

This, Modern Technology, is the way you make me feel: inadequate, uncomfortable and short of breath.

Mind you, two girls even more uncomfortable than I soon comforted me. The first was drunkenly stumbling across the lobby, a journey during which her tight dress had managed to ride up – all the way up – to her waist. As in, above her arse. Her underwear had also ridden up, leaving a large majority of her arse completely bare and on show to the smirking restaurant patrons and their unfortunate yet giggling youngsters. The second joined my housemate and I in the elevator, where she proceeded to vomit through her fingers between levels one and two. #Pureclass

See – even your ridiculous hashtag speak makes me feel awkward and illiterate.

I guess what I’m saying here, Tech (if I may call you that?) is that your fancy phones, delicious sounding operating systems and ridiculously functional eCommerce websites exclude those of us who blinked in 2003. And whatever, I don’t even care that I can’t tweet or hashtag or magically teleport shoes from Ohio. I just wish no one else cared that I couldn’t, either.

I bet you think it’s just hilarious that I now work in a digital agency, don’t you? Well, maybe it’s about time I made peace with you. I suppose having cathartically expressed myself to you, I feel ready to give our relationship another try. And you do seem to trying to make yourself more intuitive to me. But let’s just take it slow, ok? Please cool it with your ceaseless updates. Be gentle with your responsive technology. And I’m warning you, Tech: just one more new iPhone release before my contract is up and we’re through. Forever.

Google Rating
5.0