The Relentless Pursuit of Comfort and Convenience…or…How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate the Algorithm

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

I ordered a sandwich the other day.

From my couch.

Without speaking to a human being.

Without leaving my apartment.

Without even looking at a menu.

The app—the cursed, omniscient app—already knew what I wanted.

"Your usual?" it asked.

And I—

like a fool—

like a tired, complicit fool—

clicked "yes."

Twenty-three minutes later, a knock at my door.

A person I will never see again handed me a bag.

Disappeared.

I ate.

It was fine.

Perfectly fine.

And that—

that—

is the problem.

THE SEDUCTION

We have been seduced.

All of us.

By comfort.

By convenience.

By the promise that life can be frictionless.

One-click ordering.

Same-day delivery.

Algorithms that know what we want before we do.

It started innocently.

"Wouldn't it be nice," they said, "if you didn't have to go to the store?"

And we said, "Yes. That would be nice."

"Wouldn't it be easier," they said, "if you didn't have to talk to anyone?"

And we said, "Yes. That would be easier."

"Wouldn't it be better," they said, "if we just... handled everything?"

And we—

exhausted, overworked, overstimulated—

said:

"Yes. Please. Take it all. I'm so tired."

And they did.

They took it all.

THE COST

But here's what they don't tell you.

What they never tell you.

Convenience has a cost.

Not in money—though yes, also in money.

But in something deeper.

Something we don't notice until it's already gone.

Friction.

Friction is what makes us human.

The awkward small talk with the cashier.

The unexpected conversation in line.

The moment you run into someone you haven't seen in years and end up talking in the parking lot for twenty minutes about nothing important and everything that matters.

Those moments?

Those beautiful, inconvenient, unscheduled moments?

They're disappearing.

Because we've decided they're inefficient.

THE GROCERY STORE

I used to go to the grocery store.

Not because I had to.

But because... I don't know.

It was something to do.

A reason to leave the house.

A destination with no real stakes.

I'd wander the aisles.

Compare prices I didn't care about.

Stand in the cereal aisle for ten minutes, contemplating childhood.

It was time.

Unproductive time.

Wasted time, maybe.

But it was mine.

Now?

I order groceries online.

They arrive.

In bags.

Chosen by someone else.

Who occasionally makes... interesting substitutions.

I once ordered bananas and received plantains.

I once ordered Greek yogurt and received cottage cheese.

The algorithm said: "Close enough."

And I—because I didn't want to go through the inconvenience of returning it—

said: "I guess it is."

THE DEATH OF BROWSING

Do you remember browsing?

Not scrolling.

Browsing.

Walking through a store with no particular goal.

Discovering something you didn't know you wanted.

Finding a book in the clearance bin.

A shirt on the sale rack.

A kitchen gadget you absolutely don't need but suddenly can't live without.

That's gone now.

Or going.

Because the algorithm doesn't want you to browse.

It wants you to convert.

Click.

Purchase.

Move on.

No wandering.

No discovery.

No happy accidents.

Just: here's what you bought before, would you like it again?

And we say yes.

Because it's easier.

Because we're tired.

Because the thought of making one more decision feels like lifting a boulder.

THE NOTIFICATIONS

My phone buzzes constantly.

Telling me things I didn't ask to know.

"Your order is being prepared."

"Your order is out for delivery."

"Your order has arrived."

"Rate your experience."

"Would you like to order again?"

It never stops.

This relentless, automated hospitality.

This insistence on making everything easy.

But here's the thing about easy:

Easy is a trap.

Because once everything is easy—

once every need is anticipated—

once every desire is fulfilled with a single click—

What's left?

What do we reach for?

What do we long for?

What do we do when there's nothing left to do?

THE COFFEE SHOP

I used to go to a coffee shop.

Every morning.

Same place.

Same order.

But I had to go there.

Had to walk.

Had to wait in line.

Had to exchange pleasantries with the barista whose name I never learned but whose face I knew.

It was a ritual.

Small.

Mundane.

But mine.

Now, I make coffee at home.

With a machine that cost more than my first car.

It makes perfect coffee.

Every time.

Exactly the same.

No surprises.

No burnt batches.

No "sorry, we're out of oat milk."

Just: consistent, efficient, solitary coffee.

And I hate it.

Not the coffee.

The efficiency of it.

The fact that I no longer have a reason to leave.

To walk.

To exist in a space where other humans are also existing.

I've optimized myself into isolation.

THE PROMISE

They promised us more time.

"Use our service," they said, "and you'll have more time for what matters."

And we believed them.

We believed that if we could just eliminate the inconveniences—

the errands, the chores, the small tasks—

we'd finally have time for the important things.

But here's what actually happened:

We eliminated the inconveniences.

And then...

We filled the time with more consumption.

More scrolling.

More shopping.

More optimizing.

We didn't get our time back.

We just got better at spending it on nothing.

THE PARADOX

And here's the cruel irony:

The more convenient life becomes—

the more frictionless—

the more exhausted we feel.

Because convenience doesn't give us rest.

It gives us more capacity.

More capacity to do.

To consume.

To respond.

To be available.

Always.

We're not resting.

We're just... efficiently tired.

THE REBELLION

So here's what I've started doing.

It's small.

Maybe pointless.

But it's something.

I go to the store.

In person.

I wait in line.

I talk to the cashier—even when they clearly don't want to talk.

I browse.

I wander.

I buy things I don't need just because I found them.

I take the long way home.

I get coffee from the shop—even though my machine makes it "better."

I do things the slow way.

The inconvenient way.

The human way.

Not because it's efficient.

But because it's real.

THE CONFESSION

I'm not saying I've quit.

I still order things online.

I still use the apps.

I still let the algorithm tell me what I want.

Because I'm tired.

And weak.

And complicit.

But I'm trying.

Trying to notice.

Trying to resist.

Trying to hold onto the friction.

Because without it—

without the mess and the inconvenience and the beautiful, annoying humanness of it all—

what are we even doing?

THE QUESTION

So I ask you:

When was the last time you did something the hard way?

The slow way?

The way that required you to leave your house?

To wait?

To be present in a moment that wasn't optimized for your convenience?

When was the last time you were inconvenienced—

and didn't immediately try to solve it with an app?

Because I think—

and maybe I'm wrong—

but I think those moments are where life actually happens.

In the waiting.

In the friction.

In the spaces between efficiency and ease.

And we're losing them.

One click at a time.

THE ENDING (WHICH ISN'T REALLY AN ENDING)

I'm still figuring this out.

Still trying to find the balance.

Between convenience and humanity.

Between efficiency and experience.

Between what's easy and what's real.

But I know this:

The algorithm doesn't know what I want.

It knows what I've purchased.

And those are not the same thing.

So I'm going to keep going to the store.

Keep wandering.

Keep being inconvenienced.

Keep choosing friction.

Not because it's better.

But because it's mine.

And in a world that insists on making everything easy—

maybe the most rebellious thing we can do—

is choose the hard way.

The slow way.

The human way.

End Transmission.