The year is 2014. The internet's mass media juggernaut has fully processed your brain, churning it in a vat of vague hyperbole. It is now a lukewarm, absorbent porridge. An offering to the viral gods. You now enjoy the simple things. You live to see photos of Beyoncé. You don't know what this link is about, but you're going to click on it anyway. You feel hopelessly drawn toward any type of numbered list, like a donkey in a field, confronted by endless bales of hay.