My phone case says “Dope.” It’s a clear, soft plastic case with white graffiti letters painted across the back of my Samsung Galaxy S7 Edge. It’s there to remind myself and anyone in the general vicinity that the owner of this device thinks highly of herself.

But sometimes, when I count how often I reach for and mindlessly scroll my device in a span of thirty minutes, I wonder if the case speaks to something more sinister. The little shots of dopamine that course through my veins when I see a text notification or a retweet or a blog comment or an Instagram like or an interesting article. When inactivity is too much to bear and I search for something, anything, shiny to excite my wandering mind.

This is addiction.

An unquenchable thirst for “Next,” “New, “More.” Quick fixes and life hacks and 140-character jokes and screaming headlines and perfect hair, abs, and smiles. A compulsion to stand on a stage and woo the world via language. A mind that loves words can easily turn junkie — a fiend for the rush of her wit mirrored on the brightly-lit screen. The thrill of creation without creating. That’s the most dangerous high.

Delete the apps. Leave your phone at your desk when you’re in meetings. Or faced down and out of your reach at night. Or in your purse for the day. Get too comfortable in your physical existence. Embrace the security of your surroundings; the material world you forsake for mobile telenovelas. Forget — for just a moment — that the world is burning. Imagine for awhile that there’s nothing you need to know or fix or do.

Or. Pick up your phone. And get your fix.

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