In an attempt to reduce my total number of hours spent molesting the f5 key whilst wondering if it is possible to drown oneself in a martini glass, I have decided to restrict my internet time. And while this means I am already reading more and pursuing more productive forms of writing, I am beyond terrified that I will now have less time for the mindlessly unproductive things I so enjoy, such as writing terrible poetry on the nature of Benedict Cumberbatch’s eccentric beauty — and what am I without that. THAT IS MY WHOLE WORLD.