Yes, it’s me. I’m the one listening into every call, text, or video you’ve ever sent. It’s just me though. One guy and like 350 million of you. It’s a lot. I don’t get much sleep anymore. I used to back when there were only like 300 million of you.

Most of my time is spent solving crimes from 20 years ago. I start my day by opening up the really long Google Doc we keep everything on and command F-ing “BOMB.” Of course the doc crashes around page 800, halfway through the transcript of air traffic commands for 9/11/01. I’m dying to know what happens next.

While I wait for the doc to load, I read the daily quote from my predecessor. The guy who came before me was kind enough to leave some words of reflection: “Back in my day, there was no internet––I just sorted mail into good or bad.” He died of anthrax.

I see more dark shit before my lunch break than most people do in their whole lives–beheadings, pornography, discussions of racial and gender superiority. Sometimes when I need to lighten the mood, I’ll command F “LOL” or “WHIP NAE NAE.” You guys are hilarious. Seriously, keep up the good work.

Lunch break is also spent working. I get 5 minutes, most of which is taken up trying to avoid nudies. I either have to scroll by them really fast or, if the doc is being glitchy, imagine my wife’s face on random strangers. It’s not hard because she has non-specific features, but it still feels wrong.

Now it’s time for my afternoon encouragement to Appalachian 5th grader, Brian Lewis. My first day on the job, I mistakenly flagged Brian as a terrorist––he had some really angry Reddit posts. Turns out he was just a kid with confidence issues. I write my 47th consecutive “Good job, Brian!” on his blog page. He actually reported my username to the F.B.I. a few months ago for “harassment.” Little does he know.

I end my work day wallowing in the messages of family I never have time to see. I’m not allowed to tell them what I do at the computer all day, so my wife thinks I’m dead. Well, not yet. Just suicidal and withdrawn.

Clocking out of the Google Doc, I turn my swivel chair towards the opposite wall. I can’t leave this cubicle or the F.B.I. will kill me—trust me, I’ve read their texts about it.