(copied from my YBR page in its entirety because, well I'm too lazy to edit, and getting tired of how my computer is taking over my life)
Every day starts the same for me lately: I awake around 6-ish, pull on some pj bottoms, and head downstairs. I set up the coffee maker for my wife (still not one slight urge to have caffeine since Sept 1 last year), then get the paper. Our daily news rag takes less than 10 minutes to read cover-to-cover, and its content has devolved rather badly after it was acquired by a large 'news' organization; my greatest entertainment now comes in the form of seeking out typos, horrible grammar, and erroneous reportage (some local social media people seem to have the same hobby, and they are now making my day too). Then I have a very small breakfast, sit down at my usual place (head of the dining table; rarely used for dining), and flip open my laptop.
During my work cycle, two or three mornings a week begin with a 6am swim, followed quickly by a quick breakfast, putting the coffee together, making my lunch, and flipping open my laptop.
I've owned this MacBook Pro since the summer of 2010. It's a wonderful machine, which gets a pretty thorough workout every day; I use it through every lecture as the base station for my a/v displays, and it acts as my portable 'office' as I am rarely easy to find in one place during the school day.
But these past few days, I've given a great deal of thought to how I'm using this machine. Our old eMac is whirring away in the basement, older, wiser, but no slower from a dozen years of non-stop usage. It took our children from pre-teens to college, and beyond. It's my wife's trusted go to for finance, research, and shopping (though I suspect those last two are mostly one in the same), and it was my work station, music library, and porn screen. I know that at least 10% of my time spent on the old eMac was in search of that perfect image, by which I could masturbate to the perfect orgasm; that was, at least, the intent. Writing this is bringing back memories, both revolting, and weirdly nostalgic.
I rarely use the old computer, except when doing financial stuff with my wife, or trying to get our home network back on line after a digital hiccup.
This new device spends far too much time open in front of me, though I've moved a lot of its functions to my iPhone (all my teaching is done through the mobile now, with the laptop merely hosting, and emitting the files). I've caught myself whining about having to pull the laptop out of my satchel, as that has become so onerous compared to hitting the home button on my phone, and clicking on the appropriate app. I have never, ever, ever, used the iPhone to view porn. It has a hard drive that is free of such corruption, and it will stay that way.
The laptop unfortunately, can not lay that same claim. Though I had tried mightily to defend its digital purity, my P brain found ways to implement its slick functionality to transmit sexually explicit, and intellectually devoid, images. Though nothing has been kept on the hard drive, I must live with the fact that a forensic search would call up every mindless click (I often wonder how the people who do that sort of work react to what they see, as I'm sure they constantly discover that they indeed have not seen it all). Though none of it is illegal, most of it is morally reprehensible, and none of it is necessary. All of it was viewed for one particular reason, and for that, I will always be greatly disappointed in myself.
So today, I got up. Found my running gear, and pulled it on long before I had to. Retrieved the paper from our stoop, laughed at the errata, cursed at the paper-wasting inserts, and moved on to making the coffee. I had about an hour before my ride to our running group. I looked at my laptop. That was the very moment where I connected this instrument, and my devotion to it, to my P problem, for when I ritually open it every morning at this same spot, my browser opens my mail, my FB page, and whatever other tab I've left open (sometimes this very site, usually some article I have procrastinated to "later"). I scan my mail for ones that may lead to extra work. I scroll mindlessly through the rest, hoping that none need my attention. FB can suck me in, and I feel almost dirty letting it; the great majority of its content is dreck, but for the few postings by my true friends, it sucks the intelligence out of my already challenged mind, and insults the last vestiges of that which remains. But I click. I scroll. Click. Click. Scroll. I open Twitter to find traffic conditions for my wife, then get lost in its somewhat superior material (helped along by choosing a better brand of person to follow there), then maybe check here.
None of it is necessary. Upon leaving the front door, I'll get my mail more quickly and efficiently from my phone. Twitter will scroll by in the background, and all other social media will be mediated by apps and preferences that I've prescribed. But there I am, madly clicking away. Click. Quick scan. Click. Instantaneous judgement. Click. Click. Hmmm. Keeper. Click. Obviously (at least I hope it is obvious) none of this process involves pornography. That was for my me-time. But after thinking very deeply about my methods and motivations, then carefully assessing my history from recent "morning checks," I can only conclude that my particular affliction, and perhaps that which we share, involves more than just a predilection to viewing dirty pictures; there is a very clear pattern on my part by which I go to this machine without questioning why. Sure the paper gives stale news, but I rarely ever try to find updates on here. My phone's weather app is far quicker, and more accurate than the one on here.
What's more, on the very rare occasions that a titillating image pops onto my iPhone screen, I always immediately scroll away, never to return, and certainly without ever clicking the image. That same circumstance on here can lead, and in the past has led, to P sessions. My phone has become my trusted digital companion, helping me stay out of the cybersewers that I so need to avoid. The laptop though, by the very nature of how I've ritualized its use, has left some easy, and far too tempting paths back to my obsession.
This morning, I did not open the laptop until arriving back home from a very full day. I checked my mail. I gave FB about a minute of my time. I found a very provocative article in the Atlantic. I wrote this.
Every minute I spend on this machine, mindlessly clicking through the Internet, is a minute that I can't get back. Looking at FB for inspiration is as useless as scanning Tumblr pages for titillation, and offers the same spiral of endless, endlessness. The feeding and caring of that ritual also leaves me vulnerable on those bad days; times when I'm at my worst, when I'm just a click away.
Just a click away.
Not today.