I went paleo. The caveman, low level linguistic ability comes complimentary. “Yay.” I mean, “Me happy.”

It’s all the rage these days. Changing from your formerly healthy, but now intensely forbidden, diet every few months is the new norm. Sorry, stomach.

And as a millennial, I also suffer from intense, but not yet diagnosed ADD. I’m on a dozen social networks, use several email accounts, type on two laptops, take selfies with a smartphone, stream on an Apple TV, listen on three pairs of headphones, and suffer from one massive headache.

Ouch. Bring...me...Tylenol...NOW.

Ugh, can’t I just unplug? That is something I constantly struggle with. Here’s how I - and many of my millennial peers - think at night:

I better check all of my Snapchat stories before bed. I wonder who’s looked at that selfie I took earlier. I’m gonna download that pic and post it on Instagram. But if it doesn’t get a minimum of eleven likes then I’ll trash it. Whoa, it already has 5 likes? And one is my ex-girlfriend from high school? Maybe she’s single again. Does that mean I can finally delete Tinder? But what else would I do next time I’m on the toilet. I already deleted all the games on my phone to make room for more pictures. Pooping without a smartphone in hand is like taking your pet dinosaur for a walk. It doesn’t happen.

Wow. Just rereading that exhausts me. It makes me want to shred my iPhone into an infinite number of particle-sized pieces. Then I’ll throw all the pieces in the air and exhale. Bye phone. Bye Felicia.

Oh no, ADD is kicking in again...

Trump is on the news. Would you rather shake Trump’s hand or his hair? Easy. Neither. I don’t want to catch whatever he has.

Most of the time, when I’m not afraid of contracting diseases from an outspoken dirtbag with a spray tan, I’m alone. I’m working on my craft. I’m trying to “find my path in life.” That’s essentially saying, “I’m pretending to know what the fuck I’m doing.”

What I do know is this: I love to write. When I first started writing in elementary school, it came naturally. There were no rules. Then I learned rules. Rules are dumb. Die rules, die. Rules. I just said “rules” five times because I have OCD. And I don’t play by anybody’s rules (seven). You know when you need to switch the TV volume to a notch that is a multiple of 5? That’s OCD. If you do that, we’re practically siblings.

But why are rules for writers dumb? Because who’s going to put me in jail for starting a sentence with the word ‘because’? No one. Cops have better things to do. Like take down innocent people all over the country. Or give me a $200 ticket. That was fun. I love bacon, but I hate it when it’s overcooked.

I have fun breaking rules. Especially when I’m breaking rules while doing what I love. Writing. But when I’m writing, I’m alone. That doesn’t make sense, right? Fun and alone going hand in hand?

Well, think about it. When I’m alone, I can find a way to unplug. I don’t need to send a selfie of myself to myself. So much self.

Maybe this paleo thing isn’t so bad after all. Cavemen were unplugged.

Key takeaway: eat more meat, take fewer selfies.

Make last sentence five words.