The word "PAPERWORK" /pā′pər-wûrk″/ was removed from the Oxford English Dictionary today, and moved to the Encyclopedia Britannica, which has also gone  "Out of Print" but you may find it written down somewhere.

So it's no surprise that some relics of my past will seem irrelevant and disused in the new economy.

In the Receipt phase of my adulthood, where I posses more receipts in my pocket than cash -- It's perhaps best not to count backwards; Analyzing just how I've "squandered" my fortune, committing my meager wealth to a 2" inch sheet of paper. It would seem obvious that beneath this pile of small slips of paper which accumulate on my dresser as I change my pants, are a forensic accounting of my mis-spent adulthood. Soon like the penny and myself, it will all be gone.

What of my accumulated wealth best speaks to my accomplishments? Which of the things printed on these receipts can I not live without? What are my most cherished possessions in a cashless disposable economy.

We'd all like to imagine our own savvy adequate for proper survival. But behind the lens of our mythologized ingenuity, lay a paper trail of flotsam and jetsam, with no relevance today.  With what acquired devices are we really capable? -- And will the things we collect and curate, serve us in surviving the new world, or our own mediocrity. If preparation for every outcome involves something more than a pocket knife and [perhaps] a roll or tape, then my tiny slips of paper will atone for the lighter side of that scale. Yet I don't have to think too hard about what I can and cannot leave behind, nor why, so... Leave the Jewels & Grab The Colnago.

Upon our hostile Goldilocks planet,  Flavor is now a selection of table-side condiments, adorned with a crusty ring around every cap. 

The Student Body did not vote me as "Chair of the Survival Club" nor "Most likely to Survive an Apocalypse".  So it happens that even those most rudimentary respites in some riparian retreat, now require a Rivian, Satellite Internet, and a $4k Roof tent... And Then of course there is the Powder- coated Red "survival" axe, Some crazy thin empty Jerry cans, A Super-Strange Car-Jack, A winch rolled with Dyneema cord on the front of a big fat Bronco -- Far too wide to clear a toll booth. There is the absurdly expensive RTIC Cooler, The inevitable Dometic Inverter thingy, and a gallon of One Hundred Percent Deet.

Beyond Middle-Age, It's basically "Fantasy Island" where we end up.  A mythical land away from all of the noise, where Father John Misty dons a white Tuxedo, and  with the wink of an eye, a few key tools appear to help us to re-center, and find meaning beyond the noise, of our own cocky progeny.

Still those of us who proudly tout 'The Boy Scouts' were the reason we are not yet dead... It is because of this mythic preparedness that we persist against such an alien terrain. These acquisitions which represent the totality of my being are merely a kick-ass toy collection.  Perhaps beneath this collection we all have some soul-searching to do. Or perhaps as our contemporary screen-writers., have suggested... We will be the saviors of our species. Just the same, when the final scraps of paper catch fire -- I believe I know what I would drag out of the burning building. And if I'm ever destitute and homeless and turn to a life of crime, I will no doubt make the same poor choices. Grab the Colnago.

The Economics of having more paper receipts than cash, or even for having that old-person compulsion to request a paper ticket, speaks volumes to how isolated 'Gen-Analog' have become in the  new age of  grift.  At dinner the other night, when the server brought the tab to sign -- Someone quickly sported readers to see that 25% gratuity was (in fact) compulsory,  Our slacker server asked, "...And would you like the receipt...?" [When someone replied, "Yes, thank you."] 

Our smug server murmured.  "Of course you would."

It's perhaps never dawned upon the maître d' that the automatic tip is the singular reason our server couldn't be bothered to work today, and why we won't return.

As such the list of tenable restaurants seems to dwindle in direct proportion to one's age, or so to speak the generational orbit of it's staff.

While it is true that we all believe we age gracefully, right up to the tipping point -- We also know that  we have become mere tourists wherever we travel on our new Martian landscape. And that the point of Tipping means death.

We die a little each time, we give it away for nothing. Tipping is perhaps as absurd as the shitty server bringing me only the bill.

Aliens, Attractions, Relics... whatever we are now, we are still very real, if irrelevant.

At first we muse about how the kiddies see us, and how they are misbehaving, and then we simply succumb to our irrelevance. Upon our hostile Goldilocks planet, The food tastes too salty, too sweet, too mushy. Flavor is now a selection of table-side condiments, adorned with a crusty ring around every cap.  Every "Dish" is a polarizing ghost kitchen ready-made, preserved for take-out, served hand-held --  On either your choice of a gummy Pretzel Roll, or a damp Wrap, always a basket, but never a plate.

Green vegetables are White, White vegetables are Iceberg, Vegan means Tallow and Chicken Stock are the flavor profile of everything, so you need to Adjust...  and EVERY menu item requires one to

"Pick A Protein". 

Bread and butter were replaced with QR codes, Water is à la carte', and all the bus-boys have been detained by ICE. 

While, "Willow" (in air quotes), "will now be taking care of you" -- which is Gen-Z code for "They" will bring you your check AND a "to-go" box in about 15 minutes.

In the new Tap-economy, the term "Paper-trail" is also dead, and Nobody is going to search through your old receipts, nor your "Paper-Work" NOT even the IRS. Because nobody cares, and everyone is far too lazy to do that kind of "Paper-Work". Just the same I pump the gas, distracted when the screen says "See Attendant for Receipt". The kid behind the bullet-proof glass can't be bothered to re-fill the receipt spool, as he sits judging me for even wanting one anyway. 

Come the apocalypse, I believe I'll be OK with (perhaps) a Pocket knife, Some Tape, and a Bicycle... So when I next have to the pump gas, I'm not getting a fucking receipt, OKAY?, and When the house burns down choking smoke coming from my pile of papers, I won't care about the fucking "Paper-Trail" nor "Paper-Work" any longer. And come the End I'm not fucking tipping.

I won't have much use for paper money, but I'm taking the Colnago.