Uncanny Valley

a smattering of beloved friends on whom I exercised my social anxiety, primarily by avoiding them.

A social network everyone said they hated but no one could stop logging in to went public at a valuation of one-hundred-odd billion dollars, its grinning founder ringing the opening bell over video chat, a death knell for affordable rent in San Francisco.

Men, I saw, simply responded differently to men. My male pseudonyms had more authority than I did.

I wasn’t used to having an audience, and didn’t want one. It was preferable to lurk, ideal to be invisible.

tech entrepreneurs like him seemed constitutionally unable to resist cannibalizing music, books, subcultures—whatever made life interesting.

Why did it feel so taboo, I asked, to approach work the way most people did, as a trade of my time and labor for money? Why did we have to pretend it was all so fun?
Leah nodded, curls bobbing. “That’s real,” she said. “But I wonder if you’re forcing things. Your job can be in service of the rest of your life.” She reached out to squeeze my wrist, then leaned her head against the window. “You’re allowed to enjoy your life,” she said. The city streaked past, the bridge cables flickering like a delay, or a glitch.

As we left the theater in pursuit of a hamburger, I felt rising frustration and resentment. I was frustrated because I felt stuck, and I was resentful because I was stuck in an industry that was chipping away at so many things I cared about. I did not want to be an ingrate, but I had trouble seeing why writing support emails for a venture-funded startup should offer more economic stability and reward than creative work or civic contributions. None of this was new information—and it was not as if tech had disrupted a golden age of well-compensated artists—but I felt it fresh. I emitted this stream of consciousness at Leah, swearing to delete my ad-blockers and music apps, while she hailed us a cab.
“Why not just leave, find something else you’re excited about?” she asked, as we rumbled across the Williamsburg Bridge, heading toward the restaurant where she worked.
Money and health insurance, I said—and the lifestyle. I had never really considered myself someone with a lifestyle, but of course I was, and insofar as I was aware of one now, I liked it.

If the personalized playlists were full of sad singer-songwriters, I could only blame myself for getting the algorithm depressed.

What I wanted in a workplace was simple. I wanted to trust my manager. To receive fair and equal compensation. To not feel weirdly bullied by a twenty-five-year-old. To put some faith in a system—any system would do—for accountability. To take it all much less personally, and not get too close.

the job title listed in the offer letter was, in homage to the company mascot, Supportocat. I set that humiliation aside.