The haphazard ordering of drinks by people, a beaujolais, what IPA do you have on tap? Uncertainly. Unknowingly. Not doing the thing I expect everyone else to always do: know what they’re doing. Well now I know. I didn’t know but now I know. 

The bartender hands me back my change, a couple bucks, I want him to keep it for a tip but he’s holding it, holding it. I realize I’m meant to accept. Fuck. It had been going so well. I always did want to be a good customer. At a bar. Like a good patient at the doctor’s.

And now the washing machine company sends me spam and I want to unsubscribe but I’m scared. What if they have an important product update? So there you go. And as always with predictive typing this text writes itself, and it writes itself, and it writes itself.

The smartphone is the refuge of the lonely.