The Digital Leash: Why I Am My Smartphone’s Janitor

Introduction: Me and My Two Tamagotchis

I own two smartphones. I don’t use them. By that, I mean I don’t make calls, I don’t scroll through feeds, and I don’t take pictures of my lunch. My relationship with them resembles maintaining two elderly, temperamental dictators in exile. I am their personal assistant, their valet, and their maintenance crew.

Every couple of days, I approach them with a charger, like an acolyte bearing gifts to an altar, praying they don’t “die.” Because if they go dark, I cease to exist. Not in a metaphysical sense (that would be too poetic), but in a legal one. I won’t be able to access my money, see a doctor, or prove to a pancake recipe website that I am, indeed, myself.

Chapter 1: Who Invented This Hell?

Let’s find this man. He was the legendary Developer. The kind of guy who once found a bug in the security system and, instead of fixing it, turned it into a “Feature.”

— “Hey, guys,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “let’s make them enter digits from an SMS! It’s so convenient!”

At that exact moment, a special corner in hell was reserved for him, featuring an eternal CAPTCHA. At first, it was “quick and easy.” We all bought it. We were like those naive bunnies who thought an SMS code was freedom from long passwords. It turned out to be a digital umbilical cord.

Chapter 2: The “Mom, Just See the Doctor!” Thriller

For six months. For six straight months, my daughter reproached me for my supposed negligence. — “Mom, is it really that hard to just book a doctor’s appointment? It’s a one-minute job on the Government Services site!”

In her eyes, I am a luddite resisting progress. In mine, I am a person trying to enter a burning house through a locked window. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and shoved the phone screen in her face. Three mysterious letters were glowing there: TOTP (or MFA, or some other acronym that translates to “Bring us that-which-is-not, and shove it where-we-won’t-tell-you”).

— “Look!” I snapped. “Do you understand what this is? Neither do I. Because they change the interface every week. Yesterday it was a ‘Login’ button; today it’s a cryptic riddle for masters of cryptography.”

Chapter 3: The Quartet of “Tomorrow-Men”

In my personal hell, four characters sit together: Carlson-on-the-Roof, The Builder, The Developer, and the GPT.

1. The Builder: Feeds you “tomorrows” by the book. “The tiles will lay themselves tomorrow, boss.” His world is material and crooked, but at least it exists in 3D.

2. The Developer: A genius of abstraction. He created a world where you must stand on one leg and take a selfie to claim your own paycheck. It’s his personal sport: hiding the login button so only his equally twisted colleagues can find it.

3. The GPT: The pinnacle of “GPT-logy”—the art of politely sending you into a dead end. It sympathizes with your confusion over those three letters so sincerely you almost want to adopt it, yet it still won’t let you into the system.

4. Carlson: The only honest one. He also lies about tomorrow and demands jam (upfront payment), but—he flies on his own. He has a built-in propeller. He doesn’t need to scan a QR code on the housekeeper’s stomach to start his engine.

Chapter 4: The Captive’s Plea (The Chat That Isn’t)

And here comes the most painful part. While I am warring with “three letters,” my readers on Substack are waiting for an answer. People write to me, debate, and share thoughts. And what do they see? Silence.

This silence looks like arrogance. As if I have ascended to some digital Olympus. But I’m not on Olympus! I am in a digital dungeon.

Please, hear me: I am not ignoring you! I haven’t “gone Hollywood.” I simply cannot reach my hand through the bars of the mobile app. To say “hello” to you, I must perform a ritual of self-humiliation: download an app I don’t want, onto a phone I hate, and pass a verification designed by a sadistic developer.

I see your messages, I press my palms against the glass and scream, but the system has muted the sound. It says: “Want them to hear you? First, feed your smartphone and show us your retina.”

Conclusion: Who is the Servant Here?

We are the maintenance staff for our gadgets. We make sure they don’t get cold and are well-fed with electricity. And they, in moments of supreme mercy, allow us to be human—if we solve their three-letter charades.

Carlson, at least, flew for the jam… We just sit on a leash held by an Authenticator, waiting for the screen to light up.

Sent from a computer that’s still begging my phone for permission. The phone, however, is just chilling in the corner, playing dead like a useless brick.