Sometime in July, I realized I had a problem. There was no “aha” moment beyond the horrific, cruddy feeling that came over me after a solid hour and a half of scrolling through unadulterated social-media slop: videos of cats crawling up screen doors, women in milkmaid dresses baking sourdough with children on their hips, makeup tutorials for siren eyes, professional rage-bait couples “pranking” each other in visibly staged setups. All of it whizzed past my face at lightning speed, depositing dopamine into my brain in droves, and yet none of it registered. I felt like a jellyfish that had been plucked out of the sea and steamrolled three to four times. As soon as I locked my phone, I lost the ability to recall nearly every morsel of content I’d just consumed.

That week, I’d been served a

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