Seriously? I mean, seriously?
These delicate little neurotics are afraid of fucking doorbells now?
Mr. Walia, 19 years old and a computer science major, says he just isn’t comfortable ringing them. He and his friends have become so accustomed to texting one another upon arrival, he says, that the sound of a doorbell feels like an unexpected jolt.
“Doorbells are just so sudden. It’s terrifying,” says Tiffany Zhong, 20, the founder of Zebra Intelligence, which helps companies conduct custom research and gather insights on people born in the past two decades.
Um. “Terrifying”? Really? Good Lord.
There’s no published research about doorbell phobia, but it’s a real thing. In a poll by a Twitter user earlier this month that got more than 11,000 votes, 54% of respondents said “doorbells are scary weird.”
Some millennials and Gen Zers say they won’t even consider answering a ring at the door until they’ve checked the security camera.
The doorbell freak-out reflects the ascendance of mediated communication, which means people interacting through technological devices rather than directly. It’s not so much about screen time versus face time as it is a merger of the two.
Smartphones provide extra information thought by users to be vital to day-to-day interactions. Without smartphones to help, encounters can feel fraught.
“Typically, doorbells are for outsiders,” says Ms. Zhong, whose LinkedIn profile describes her as a “teen whisperer.” “A text signifies it’s a friend.”
God help us if we as a nation ever have to rely on no-ball pisspots like these to, say, storm the beaches at Normandy or something. What might be even worse than publicly admitting something as humiliating as this, though, is that the wilted little hothouse flowers don’t even have sense enough to be ashamed of their tremulous lunacy, and don’t seem to care who knows what gutless little feebs they are.
On the other hand, though, I guess in light of this it’s easy enough to see why they’re all so terribly frightened of Trump. I imagine that, should they ever so much as see a picture of Patton, they’d all just fall over dead from the quivering fantods.
I repeat: good Lord.