I am the goddess of the Sticky Note.

I long thrived on all of the words humanity would generously pour into me. I feasted on their cursive, their block letters, their chicken scratch. Penmanship came in many flavors – each one a fresh treat, each one an act of devotion. Each message as unique as the human hand that scrawled it in their haste.

People never seemed to feel that they had enough time. But I had all of time to enjoy their scribblings.

Messages to themselves. Messages to each other. Messages meant for the void. So many fleeting moments I enjoyed along with my loyal followers – soaking in their ink and their graphite and their adorably-named permanent markers.

Then the laptops came. The cellphones. The tablets.

My source of worship dried up. Why bother with paper? Digital would not crumple. It would not be destroyed in the wash, forgotten in some back pocket. It would not end up at the bottom of some messenger bag, smeared and torn.

One by one I lost them. Oh, the bored office worker might still pen something to me while they wasted away on hold. A scribbled line here. Geometric shapes, and labyrinths that lead nowhere. Ideas for the lyrics they would never sing.

I felt abandoned. I was furious! How could they do this to me?

So I asked one of my sisters for a favor. I just needed one little thing done.

Then the solar flare happened. We weren’t counting on the coronal mass ejection that followed.

When the power grid went down, and the last battery bar vanished, people started scribbling again – just like I wanted. But all they would write about was about the end of the world, the apocalypse, the struggle to survive in this changed world. And I’m so bored with that genre.

Why wouldn’t they write me notes about all the pretty lights in the sky I gave them instead?