6:30 AM: 15 minutes [actual] / 2 minutes [perceived]

“Bad boys, bad boys.  Whatcha gonna do?”

“Sleep”, I reply in silent aggravation.  Rolling over, I hit the snooze button on my iPhone 8 Plus (2017 release date), muting this blaring anthem briefly. 

Looking up groggily in the dim early morning light, I can faintly see the outline of the Tesla Cybertruck (2019) on the poster taped to the ceiling above my bed.  Someday, I’ll own one of those.   

Covering my head with the pillow, flowing locks of wavy blond hair smothered under my cherished and threadbare Johnny Bravo (2004) pillowcase, I immediately fall back to sleep.

The “bad boys” are back, and louder than ever.  It seems like it’s only been a few minutes.  Or maybe the song never stopped. 

I chose this tune because of its excellent usage in Grand Theft Auto V (2013).  A retro game, but still an enjoyable classic.  However, after use as an alarm for the past year, the jingle is starting to wear on me.

“I’m awake!” I yell, reluctantly kicking off the covers. 

Snatching my phone up from the bedside table, I contemplate a full overhand toss across the room, before coming to my senses.  If my phone gets damaged, I readily admit I wouldn’t being able to function in society on a daily basis.

Sliding out of bed, I walk over and placing this precious socialization device on the wireless remote charger in the bathroom.  The relentless snooze countdown on the phones display shuts off automatically, revealing a close-up image of Ariana Grande.  Her dark eyes are complemented by heavy eye shadow, and her long, straight brown hair with dyed blonde tips is a secured in a high pony tail (2014).

This phone position recognition technology is frustrating, but it’s the only way I can force myself to get up each morning.  The urge to sleep is strong, especially on mornings after a marathon video game session, as is the case today.   

We’re getting close to completing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (2019), and the excitement builds with each new mission.

As I finish brushing my teeth, the phone buzzes on its charging perch.  Reading the text elicits a smile through my now sparklingly, clean, white teeth.

“MORNING SEXY.”

7:35 AM: 10 minutes / 40 minutes

“Damn, it’s cold outside.  Where’s this bus?”

Granted, since it’s 35°F, I probably shouldn’t be wearing shorts, and could have grabbed something warmer than a hoodie.  But that’s not the point.

I got my license six months ago, and should be driving to school every day.  However, the Nissan Leaf (2010) my parents offered as a ride, an inheritance from my deceased grandmother, isn’t up to my standards in either power or style.  With the bright red colorway, and soft design lines, it looks like an oversized lady bug.  Not very manly.

At least I have my phone to keep me entertained while waiting for the bus.  Opening up Tinder (2012), I peruse the offerings, continually swiping left.

Bored by the monotony of blond teenage girls, I switch over to the Game of War app (2013).  I’ve been building my alliance for months, an endeavor that requires constant vigilance. 

Despite my actively engaged fingers, my core temperature is still dropping, as the brisk winter wind has not subsided. 

Conceding defeat, I duck down and enter the shed my dad build for me to wait for the bus back in elementary school.  This hut is definitely not designed for someone 6’2”.  Hunched over, cold and cramped, my frustrated mind starts its typical non-verbal venting. 

"What is the hold-up with this bus anyways?  There should be rules about being the first person picked up, and last one off.   I must have been waiting an hour by now!"

At last, the large yellow monstrosity finally makes the turn into view down the road. 

One bonus of being the first passenger is that I can claim the back seats, reinforcing the standard hierarchy which exists on public transportation vehicles everywhere.  I’m in charge from now on, even if I am the only varsity athlete that still rides the bus to school.

“I’m still the man.”

8:45 AM: 3 minutes / 3 minutes

“WYA BRO?”

“SPANGLISH, U?”

My best friend Ted replies with 3 more texts in quick succession.  All of these include slang, and at least one humorous emoji, two of Ted’s correspondence staples.   

Each morning this is our routine during 1st period.  Fortunately, we’re both in foreign language classes, with teachers who think we have our phones out to look up translations.  No chance. 

I can’t remember the last time Ted and I actually talked to each other on the phone.  The values of texting are overwhelming: discrete, documented, direct, and digital.

Ted is the goalie on our lacrosse team.  Kind of a slacker from an athletic perspective, but not without several redeeming qualities: rich parents, access to drugs, and owner of a pimped-out conversion van.  Ted and I share everything; we’ve even talked about hooking up with a girl together, but the opportunity is unfortunately not presented itself yet.

Most relevant, his video gaming skills are unrivaled.  We’ve been gaming together since we were five years old, starting with sports games like FIFA and NBA 2K on PlayStation 3 (2006), then transitioning to Super Smash Bros over various Nintendo platforms (2014), and recently getting engrossed in the new wave of online, multiplayer, first-person shooter offerings.

Checking my phone, I see the telltale “. . . “ which signifies another text from Ted is pending.

“LUNCH @ TBELL?”

Perfect, I was hoping to get away from school for an hour.  It’s nice how quick and simple such planning has become via texts.  Just as I hit send on my confirmation message, the bell rings. 

2nd period already.  Time for frog dissection in Earth Science class. 

“Fuck!”

​

11:05 AM: 45 minutes / 3 hours

“Theodor Herzl was the founder of modern Zio . . .”

“How is this useless fact remotely relevant to my life?”

The same question crosses my mind at least five times every social studies class.  Granted, there are some cool elements of history, especially those involving warfare tactics, which interest me.  However, I prefer to learn such information via the much more stimulating television format. 

Instead, I’m stuck with the dry monotony of our European History teacher, who wears the same drab brown tweed jacket, over a wrinkled light blue button up shirt, every day. 

"When was the last time he had a date?"

To the right of the large projector screen image and its droning orator, is an archaic 16” round dial wall clock, just like the thousands of others found at educational facilities across the country.  This particular one must be broken; I swear the slim black hands are moving backwards. 

Secretly checking my phone, which offers the benefits of atomic digital timepiece accuracy, reveals the same disturbing conclusion.  We’re only halfway through this social studies lesson, and it seems like it’s been hours already.

At least the scenery is good.  I’ve taken up my usual seat in the back left corner of the classroom.  Adjacent to the window for daydreaming, while also offering an unencumbered, and discrete, view of all the ladies in class. 

“Why do the girls always sit up front?”

I don’t know, or care.  Today, Julie in the front row is wearing a pair of low-cut jeans, which reveal her turquoise thong through the gap between the contoured seat and small back rest on these hard-plastic chairs.  You would think high school students could earn the privilege of more comfortable seating arrangements.  Not that I’m complaining about the current situation.

Trying to be subtle, I turn my head towards window briefly and realize it’s snowing.  Snow camo is one of my favorite military outfits; I have pairs of shorts with the standard greyscale, as well as the more innovative colored print options.  Not sure how purple or orange is a disguise in snow, but they do look cool.

Speaking is snow, that snowmobile purchase in as another vehicle item my parents are skimping on.  At least I can ride one in the virtual world.  The “Cliffhanger” mission in the “OG” Call of Duty MW2 (2009) offers a great opportunity for simulated snow machine fun.

Inspired by this stream of conscious gaming daydream, I stealthy pull out my phone and send a quick text to Ted.

“C.O.D. SPEC OPS 2NITE?”

​

12:55 PM: 30 seconds / 5 seconds

“Good thing I grabbed that Altoid.”

I can taste the peach balm on my girlfriend’s lips.  Combined with my spearmint candy, it provides subtle hints of a mint julep.  Without the bourbon unfortunately.

These pleasant flavors are still not enough to mask the tingling heat of fatty ground “beef” which is still overwhelming my pallet, and stomach.  I may need to use the public toilet at school to drop a deuce; this is an experience I try to avoid, but there may be no choice today.

Snapping my mind back to reality, I focus on the task at hand.  My girlfriend is currently trying to see how far she can get her tongue down my throat.  She stands at just over 5 feet, so the angle is a little off.  I bend my knees accommodatingly, as she simultaneous rocks up on her tip toes. 

I think back through the love scene’s I’ve watched on TV recently; deciding to envision myself as Jon Snow kissing Daenerys in G.O.T (2019).  All is going well until one of my long strands of hair ends up intermixed with our slimy mouths. 

As we pull back for air to regroup, the post-lunch alarm bell rings.  That went quick.

“Got to go,” she coos, before giving me one final peck on the check, then walks away, her green mini-skirt swaying seductively. 

I was hoping we could skip 6th period, and try out the “conversion” function of Ted’s van.  Regardless, it was nice of him to leave me the keys after our lunchtime excursion.

I watch my lady friend leave, her short brown hair blowing loose in the brisk wind, which is already conspiring to form goose bumps on her pale, bare, legs.  Resting the urge to document, for once I don’t extract my phone from the pocket of my hoodie.

“I wonder what else is cold and perky?”

​

3:25 PM: 2 minutes / 12 minutes

 “3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Start!.”

Taking the largest breath I can muster, I fill my lungs, then close my mouth, just before my head submerges underwater.

I’m not sure how this aquatic test is relevant to lacrosse, or legal, but there’s no copping out now. Apparently, any underclassmen who wants to make a varsity sports team has to go through this torture.

In video games, staying underwater always seems so simple.  Granted, that usually requires picking up a convenient scuba suit, or illegally boarding a submarine. 

Another great option is the ability to filter oxygen out of the water using gills like amphibians. 

“How cool would that be.”

Granted, that would require filtering this nasty pool water through my body.  Who knows how many junior high lemmings pee in here on a daily basis?

Fortunately, I’ve at least been provided with goggles, which means I can keep my eyes open.  A few lanes over, there’s a few girls from the swim team doing laps.  I can’t recognize them, but the thrashing, muscular bodies in bright red swimsuits are a welcome distraction from my current suffering.

My lungs are burning, but no more than during the end of a lacrosse game.  Not needing to move allows time for reflection.  An entire quarter of a grueling match seems to have elapsed, yet I feel no body fatigue.  However, my throat is starting to tense up, and my vision is going blurry.

Conceding defeat, I pop to the surface, expelling a combination of stale air and chlorinated liquid in a long stream.  It feels like I was underwater forever. 

Slowly recovering my vision, through the dripping goggle lenses, the geometric pink LED lights of the large digital clock sitting on the edge of the pool coalesce to read “3:27:04”.

My birth date, that’s a fortuitous sign.  And I’ve passed the 2-minute underwater test without dying.  Clearly, my lacrosse coach could care less, based on the deadpan commands from his lawn chair perch on the tiled pool deck.  

“Good.  Next.”

​

5:25 PM: 20 seconds / 5 minutes

“MISSING U CUTIE!”

Riding in the back of the SUV gives me an opportunity to do some networking.  Plus, since my mom picked me up after lacrosse practice on her way home from work, I don’t have to ride that godforsaken school bus.

I’m still amazed my parents didn’t upgrade to the fold-down TV screen option in the back seat.  With a few tech hacks, I could have my cell linked to the display, and be playing games on a much larger screen than my iPhone.

I check my electronic communication device again, instinctively.  Still no response from my girlfriend.

“What else could she be doing right now?”

Based on my experience, granted we’ve only been official for 3 months, there is no scenario where she doesn’t have the phone in her possession, including when she’s in the bathroom.  Even while hanging out with her friends, it seems like they’re all glued to their screens, rather than talking to each other.  Not that I’m any different around my crew.

Maybe it’s a technology issue.  I check the upper left icon on my cell phone; 4 bars of 5G (2020).  Looks fine.  There’s never been an issue with service on the drive home before.

As my mom pulls into the driveway, my phone finally buzzes.  I swap from my game screen over to texting, fingers tingling in anticipation, and ready to respond.

Instead, I start blankly at the curt response from my lady friend.  I waited all that time for this?  No romantic emoji, or revealing Snapchat photo (2011)?

“K, ME 2”

​

6:05 PM: 1 hour / 2.5 hours

“I’m a good-looking bro.”

The water rolls down over my long, blond, hair and across my toned adolescent abs.  The hot shower feels great. 

I rinsed off at school after lacrosse practice, but always have trouble relaxing enough to get a thorough cleanse in the gym locker room.  I enjoy my own conditioner, soft cotton towels, and the privacy home provides, in case any sudden urges arise.  Plus, I’m a little self-conscious about my emerging bacne.

Drying off, I crawl under the covers naked.  Visions of my girlfriend drift into my mind, and I contemplate my options.  Vegging wins the battle over testosterone, so I grab my iPhone and Air Pods (2016) from the bedside table.

I’ve been closely following the Drone Racing League (2015), and hope to try out for the circuit as soon as I can afford the VR goggles needed for accurate simulated maneuvering.

My parents have been nagging me to get a job, but GameStop (2000) is the only place I have any interest working at.  Except that the GameStop in the local mall hasn’t been hiring in months, and I doubt they will be open past the upcoming holiday season.  Everyone buys their games online now.

The beginning of the DRL coverage includes a bio of each player, which I breeze through at 2X speed, then a breakdown of the course, which I watch three times over, focusing intently.  It’s amazing to me how large these stadium setups are, filling entire professional sports arenas, and how fast the drones travel, often exceeding 85 MPH.

A best element of the TV production is FPV, or “first-person view”, which allows spectators to experience what the drone operators see while navigating the course.  It’s mesmerizing footage. 

In the race I’m watching, 6 drones are chasing each other through the complex 3-dimesional course.  The current first-place craft, identified by yellow LEDs, maneuvers deftly through neon-lit target rings which denote direction, and tight chicanes defined by vertical poles of bright white light. 

As this lead object exits the last straightway, and heads for the final feature, a 180° inverted looping turn, trouble arises.  Becoming disoriented in 3D space, the driver inadvertently clips one of the oval light strips marking the route. 

The drone quickly becomes unstable, a yellow flash careening out of control towards the ground of the arena.  The impact with the concrete floor is harsh.  The yellow LEDs flicker out, but are quickly replaced with similar yellow, orange, and red hues; the telltale sign of an electronics fire. 

Glancing up, I realize the smoke isn’t just on the phone’s screen, but also filling the air on my small bedroom.  Based on the smells wafting in from under the closed door, I can already tell what’s for dinner: burned meatloaf and mushy peas. 

“A crashed drone on fire would probably smell better.” 

​

8:45 PM: 3 hours / 30 minutes 

“Watch your six, Noobs!”

Even over the headset, my cracking adolescent voice is acknowledged across the web. 

My 3 military cohorts, two British SAS agents, who are actually pimply faced teenage brothers dialing in from India, which was at least once a British colony, and one other CIA officer, represented by Ted, immediately adjust their flanking positions.

I’ve played enough hours of online RPGs with this crew for them to catch my sarcastic verbal insult of their gaming skills.

Instead of playing on my computer monitor, the game feed is connected to the 48” flat screen TV mounted on the wall of my bedroom.  The graphic quality and game speed are impressive.  I’ll give my parents credit for once for not skimping on internet bandwidth.

My military teammate, and best friend, tracks his gun left, following my lead.  We’re currently navigating through a bombed-out fictional city of Verdansk.  Our joint faction, under the codename “Armistice”, is tracking down one of the few remaining Al-Qatala terrorist operatives, an individual simply known as “The Banker”.

I’m still getting used to the new display format.  The HUD, or “Heads-Up Display”, functionality has been eliminated in this advanced mode, making for a much more realistic experience, but there’s certainly less game information available in real time.

With the lights off in the room, and my headset on, I’m deeply engaged in the operation.  Even though I’m sitting down, my feet twitch impulsively as we scramble quickly over mounds of ruble exposed in bright sunlight, or shuffle silently along dimly light stone corridors.

Suddenly, a barrage of machine gun fire comes from behind an overturned pick-up truck in front of us.  It’s an energetic, and potentially dangerous, burst.

Bolting upright instinctively and feeling around my torso to check if I’m hit, I realize that the aggressive banging noise is not gunfire, but instead my mom pounding on my bedroom door.

“Are you still awake?”  “Did you finish your homework?”  “Go to bed!”, she shrieks in her usual raspy voice.

This intrusive stream of yelling, the second such disturbance from my mother this evening, finally drags me fully back to reality. 

Irate at the disturbance, I crack the knuckles on my long, boney, fingers in an effort to relieve the pent-up anger I so adamantly want to fire back at the woman who raised me.

“Let’s call it, lads,” I communicate quietly over the headset, hoping my even tone will mask both my shame at being interrupted, and my fatigue from lack of sleep.

“Sounds good”, replies Ted quickly, no doubt unconsciously sensing my troubles and trying to help me out.  He lives on Red Bull and Adderall, so I know he isn’t tired.

Glancing down at my phone I realize its nearly midnight.  It feels like we just started playing a few minutes ago. 

My mobile also displays the drudgery of being a social butterfly: 13 text messages, 12 Snapchats, 9 Instagram (2010) DMs, 7 Gmails, all of which are likely spam, and new 4 TikTok (2017) video posts. 

Back to the real world, and the endless stream of nagging stimulation which shapes my life.  

“To bad I can’t just warp back into the virtual land of Urzikstan, with all the isolation and thrill it provides.”

​

12:30 PM: 6 hours / 30 minutes 

“GN”

“GN”

My phone buzzes in near unison as two separate texts arrive simultaneously.  The letters in both are the same, each short string followed by a single face emoji.  The eyes of one are starstruck hearts, and in the other, tears on amusement rain down the cheeks. 

I smirk in silent contentment.  It’s been a long day, but a good one. 

I lay my head back down, tangled hair in a messy golden sprawl over the “Johnny Utah” pillowcase.  Almost instantaneously, I’m dozing off.

Suddenly, I’m in a black Jeep Wrangler, with the tan cloth top rolled back.  Sitting next to me in the passenger seat is my lady friend, slightly more endowed than in real life; in cut-off jean shorts and a white tank top, no bra.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I see the reflection of my friend Ted.  He’s standing on the back bench seat, holding onto the roll bar, the shirtless top half of his body fully outside the vehicle.  Ted seems taller and more muscular than I remember him.  

My phone is clicked into a convenient suction-cup holder on the Jeep’s windshield.  Google maps (2005) directions displays a windy, snaking, line tracking the coastline of the Pacific Ocean.  The destination reads Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, and an arrival time of 30 minutes.

Ahead, the sun is rising above a row of tall, slender, palm trees.  It casts a glowing orange circular reflection on the expanse of ocean, which is lapping against the white sand beach adjacent to the roadway on my right.

Reaching down, I click the stereo on, then increase the volume.  The speakers respond, expensive door tweeters, and trunk subwoofer, working in tandem to belt out the melodic tune.

“Bad boys, bad boys.  Whatcha gonna do?”