I wake up in the morning with my phone stuck to my hand—this small black rectangle made of equal parts vanity and distraction.

At first I was cool about it. Just used it for calls, directions, an occasional text or e-mail, but then one Christmas I couldn’t stop playing Temple Run, and I realized I might have a problem. I deleted the game and thought I was on the mend.

Now I’ve gone and joined Twitter, Instagram, started a Facebook site, and everything has gone to hell. The phone devours my attention, pulls at me like a sculpted wedge of neutron star on the kitchen counter.

Yes, I know it’s all the same school ground stuff—popularity, friendship, validation—they come pipping out of the device like a morphine drip. All I have to do is push the button. A drug I’ve tested and know I must someday quit for good.

But then I see the small black rectangle on the bed stand, and in sleeplessness my hand fumbles for it. A thumb-mash of the call button and I get the next splash of morphine—a brief visual patch for this yawning, chemical quiver.