Perhaps sadly, the thing I remember most fondly about spending the evenings at my grandparents' house was the unfettered and largely uninterrupted internet access. No one else ever seemed to use that computer, and no one ever nagged me for how much time I spent on it. It was all mine at their house - the internet itself felt like it belonged to me.

I don't so much mind the overstimulation leaking onto other areas of my life, but lashing out at the person I love most is the saddening, sobering consequence of a pattern continuing for far too long. Not only are the tasks not handled, but I come home irritable and no fun to be around. It's a lose-lose.

It happened to you not long ago: A friend you haven't seen in entirely too long was up and at it, ready to make plans. You talked to them for a while. You found a time and place that agreed with both of your schedules. They were so excited, and you were too - you've been missing each other deeply. The days passed, and there was a small voice in the back of your head that you ignored; one that said "They're going to flake. They always do." Sure enough... How about this: Work t

There's another kind of tragedy here, one that takes place on an individual level - the same one I find myself grappling with at this very moment. Why must I wait to hear what my chosen media outlet says about this - or anything, for that matter - before I can form my own opinion?

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