In the idea of the personal, be it physical space or thought, it is the edge; it is the field of view. For what is the self but information—mitochondrial DNA to our personal shopping habits—stored in some reclusive server farm. Information: data, the ones and zeros, the code that is everywhere. The lonely tones of the clinical voice, overlaid with distorted personal devotions and tapping fingers, give direction to lost time and lost love. We are caught in the gaze of this “thing,” this media, this body—heroic, vilified, or merely idealized—selling the impossible washboard lifestyle. In disjointed techno-acid style, the image endeavors to entrance an attractive state of annoyance.