Mark Morford does it again, with this article: “My Cell Phone Induces Orgasm / Also cooks perfect eggs, IMs with Jesus, will marry your ugly cousin. How about yours?”

It is no secret that I had overwhelming technolust for the Nokia 7610 a few months ago. But now I don’t, and I don’t even want a 6600, which is weird because the MSG has one now so it’s more than a concept and a few pretty pictures.

This means I’ve entered the first stage of Unreactive Mode, as I’ve come to call it, which is not a good thing, but at least I can see it coming instead of being blindsided by it as I have in the past.

Although I’ve tried many different things, I don’t have a method of relaxing my response to the world around me. Think of Yoda: There is no “tone down”, there is only react or not react. I’ve been reacting pretty intensely lately, so this unreactive backlash will probably last a while.

The first part of this mode is usually characterized by not wanting to interact with people or things directly, instead preferring to interact with the concepts of them. For example, I can’t shop right now. Making decisions on even the simplest purchases — like food or gasoline — frustrates me unduly. But I think about going to the farmer’s market and picking some stuff up, and the thought of it is pretty okay.

In a people-heavy job such as mine, work stresses me out way more than it should. Little problems, which I normally love to solve, become huge ones, and people seem overly critical of me so I, in turn, am overly critical of them. I spend my workdays writing planning documents, revising policy statements, and reworking guidelines. Theory over practice.

I have no desire to hang out with any of my acquaintances, although I miss them and think of them often and sense that being near them wouldn’t be so bad. But so much of hanging out is talking, and so much of talking is responding. If I could only listen, it would be fine. But no one wants just a listener. Being a supportive friend means commiserating and giving advice.

I hate checking my email, instant messaging, or even touching my mobile while I’m in this mode. I can’t stop the bad news from coming.

If I could make it through a day without being touched by anyone, it would be more comforting. But I work in a very touchy-feely place, and on Muni, knees and elbows can’t help but meet each other abruptly. If I weren’t touched, I could slip past everything; I could pretend this was all a strange dream.

Everything is quiet in my head. Venting my financial woes in such a lugubrious fashion the other day helped a bit, but it may have helped too much. The wagons inside me have circled; the pillbug is curled up.

My mother once told me that she thought I was an alien, because so many things regarding human interaction that are so easy for her are unnaturally difficult and confusing for me. I don’t think I’m an alien, but I do often feel like a sea creature, granted new legs and lungs, finding her way on land.

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