In days of yore, we're told, people had less leisure time because everything – everything – was a protracted pain in basically everyway. Want a bath? Then you'll have to walk six miles carrying a pail of water back from the village well. No wonder the people in medieval time look so miserable, even when they aren't being pillaged ruthlessly or dropping dead in a flurry of nameless diseases. And oh how we modernites love to chortle at their unsophisticated lives.
But in many ways, the rustic serf of yesteryear had a better quality of life than their counterparts of 2010. Computers have freed us from hours of drudgery with one hand, but introduced an equal amount of slightly different drudgery with the other. No matter how advanced civilisation becomes, there's a lurking menace at the core that can never be completely eradicated.
These days it's commonplace to do everything online, from ordering grocery to locating a long lost friend who may or may not be a homicidal freak at large. Tasks that would have taken years to organise and achieve can now be accomplished in the blink of an icon.
Or would be, if you could remember your password.
In this age of rampant identity theft, we're told only a maniac would use the same password for everything. But passwords used to be for seedy bar owners or elaborate spy missions. Once upon a time, you were not supposed to commit hundreds of passwords to memory. Now you are.
But in many ways, the rustic serf of yesteryear had a better quality of life than their counterparts of 2010. Computers have freed us from hours of drudgery with one hand, but introduced an equal amount of slightly different drudgery with the other. No matter how advanced civilisation becomes, there's a lurking menace at the core that can never be completely eradicated.
These days it's commonplace to do everything online, from ordering grocery to locating a long lost friend who may or may not be a homicidal freak at large. Tasks that would have taken years to organise and achieve can now be accomplished in the blink of an icon.
Or would be, if you could remember your password.
In this age of rampant identity theft, we're told only a maniac would use the same password for everything. But passwords used to be for seedy bar owners or elaborate spy missions. Once upon a time, you were not supposed to commit hundreds of passwords to memory. Now you are.
In the meantime: you need a new password. Having demanded a brand new password from you for the 28th time this month, His Lordship Your Computer haughtily dismishes your efforts. Certain attempts he will disqualify immediately, without even passing judgment. Less than six letters? No numbers? Access denied. So start again. And this time: no recognisable words. No punctuation marks. No hesitation, deviation or repetition. Go.
Suppose you glance around your desk and pick the first thing you set eyes on, such as a paper clip. You begrudgingly shove a number on the end, creating the password "paperclip1". You submit this offering to the Digital Emperor, and he derides it as "Weak". So you try again. This time you replace some of the letters with numbers and jumble the capitalisation a bit, like a gymnast trying to jazz up performance to impress the panel judges. The Computerlord vaguely acknowldged the effort and jumped a grade to "OK".
Access granted. You are now a proud member of an online banking service.
Three weeks later, you revisit the site to proceed with an online transaction. But you can't remember your password. You can't remember it because you chose it so very long, long ago. And in the intervening period you've had to dream up another 10 passwords for another 10 websites, programs or email addresses.
Your beautiful password is dead. It was simply too complex and exquisite to live in your lifeless world, your bleak brain. Now brave the ignominy of clicking the password reset button and as you trudge toward your inbox, waiting for help to arrive, the cruel laughter of The Computer rings in your ears.
You have failed, human. You have failed.
Suppose you glance around your desk and pick the first thing you set eyes on, such as a paper clip. You begrudgingly shove a number on the end, creating the password "paperclip1". You submit this offering to the Digital Emperor, and he derides it as "Weak". So you try again. This time you replace some of the letters with numbers and jumble the capitalisation a bit, like a gymnast trying to jazz up performance to impress the panel judges. The Computerlord vaguely acknowldged the effort and jumped a grade to "OK".
Access granted. You are now a proud member of an online banking service.
Three weeks later, you revisit the site to proceed with an online transaction. But you can't remember your password. You can't remember it because you chose it so very long, long ago. And in the intervening period you've had to dream up another 10 passwords for another 10 websites, programs or email addresses.
Your beautiful password is dead. It was simply too complex and exquisite to live in your lifeless world, your bleak brain. Now brave the ignominy of clicking the password reset button and as you trudge toward your inbox, waiting for help to arrive, the cruel laughter of The Computer rings in your ears.
You have failed, human. You have failed.
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