There's tons of junk food for your mind on the Internet. You can

Host: The café glowed dimly beneath a single flickering neon sign. Outside, the rain whispered against the glass, carving slow rivers through the grime of forgotten days. Inside, two figures sat by the window — Jack, his jaw tight, his eyes distant as the city lights trembled across them; and Jeeny, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup, the steam curling like soft ghosts between them. The air carried the hum of an old radio, and the world beyond seemed caught in a slow, tired pulse.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about what Henry Rollins said — about the junk food for your mind on the Internet?”

Jack: (leans back, eyes half-closed) “Yeah. I think he was right. The Internet’s a buffet of garbage. Endless arguments, endless noise. People wasting hours trying to prove they’re right to strangers they’ll never meet.”

Host: The light trembled over his face, half shadow, half flame. His voice was low, gravelly, as if it carried the weight of too many lost nights.

Jeeny: “But isn’t it more than that? It’s not just junk food. It’s… connection. Even if it’s messy, even if it’s loud — it’s people reaching out, trying to be seen, trying to matter.”

Jack: “Connection?” (he scoffs) “No, it’s addiction dressed up as connection. People scrolling through feeds like rats pressing a lever for one more dopamine hit. Look at it, Jeeny — a world of people talking, but no one actually listening.”

Host: A car passed outside, its headlights slicing briefly through the smoke of their breath, illuminating their faces like an old film reel flickering to life.

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But I think about the Arab Spring, Jack. How voices rose online — real people, real change. Those hashtags carried revolutions. They weren’t rats pressing levers — they were humans demanding to be heard.”

Jack: “Sure. For every revolution, there’s a thousand echo chambers. For every spark, a flood of distraction. Remember Cambridge Analytica? They turned that same ‘connection’ into a weapon. You think that’s what Rollins meant? No — he saw the truth. It’s not just junk food — it’s poison that tastes like sugar.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, deep and heavy. Jeeny’s eyes caught the flash outside, reflecting both fear and fire.

Jeeny: “But Jack, don’t you see? It’s not the tool, it’s the user. You can drown in wine, or you can toast with it. The same Internet that spreads hate also spreads hope. Look at the MeToo movement — the truths that surfaced, the voices that refused to be buried.”

Jack: (leans forward, voice low) “And look at what followed — witch hunts, cancel culture, everyone playing judge and executioner behind a screen. We’ve traded our humanity for instant outrage. Every click another hit, every comment another fix.”

Host: The rain thickened, drumming against the window like impatient fingers. The café felt smaller, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen.

Jeeny: “You always look for the worst in things, don’t you?”

Jack: “I look for the truth. And the truth isn’t kind.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you’re always alone.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp, cutting through the warm air like a blade. Jack’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, his mask cracked — a flicker of old pain, quickly buried.

Jack: “You think I like being alone? I’ve just seen what this digital circus does to people. It replaces real conversation with conflict, real companionship with followers, real learning with memes. You can waste twenty hours arguing online, and still be exactly where you started — emptier.”

Jeeny: “Maybe emptiness isn’t the Internet’s fault, Jack. Maybe it’s ours. Maybe it’s a mirror, not a monster. It shows us what we already are — restless, lonely, searching.”

Host: A flicker of lightning briefly painted her face, soft and luminous, her eyes alive with something like sadness and belief intertwined.

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but mirrors don’t make the cracks. People are breaking because they’re feeding their minds on lies. They read headlines, not books. They confuse opinions for facts, and validation for value.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those same people — some of them find comfort. Some find community when they have none. I met a girl online once, from a small town in Syria. She said the only thing keeping her going during the war was talking to strangers on Twitter who told her she mattered. Tell me, Jack — was that junk food, too?”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his cup, the steam rising like a muted plea between them. His jaw worked, but no words came for a moment.

Jack: “No. That… that was something real.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the truth — the Internet isn’t the villain or the hero. It’s the crowd, the marketplace. Some people sell wisdom, some sell noise. We just have to choose what we buy.”

Jack: (softly) “But most people don’t know how to choose. They’re children in a candy store with no sense of hunger. The world’s too loud. And the more we shout, the less we feel.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jeeny’s face, fragile as a new flame. She reached across the table, her hand resting gently on his.

Jeeny: “Then teach them to listen, Jack. Not by shouting louder — but by speaking better. By being the silence that cuts through the noise.”

Jack: (quietly, eyes lowering) “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But neither is being human.”

Host: The rain slowed, softening into a rhythmic drizzle. The neon outside hummed faintly, its glow washing their faces in tired color. Something unspoken — forgiveness, maybe — passed between them.

Jack: “You know… maybe Rollins wasn’t warning us about the Internet. Maybe he was warning us about ourselves — how easily we trade our attention for amusement, our time for trivia.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But awareness is the start. Maybe the cure for junk food is learning to taste again. To be mindful of what we feed our minds — and what we give back.”

Host: A long pause. Outside, the rain had stopped entirely. The streetlights shimmered over small puddles, each one a tiny, trembling mirror of the sky.

Jack: “So maybe… the real revolution isn’t online at all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s in how we use it — and how we remember to step away from it.”

Host: The camera would linger here — the two of them in quiet reflection, the cups empty, the silence deep but alive. The café’s hum returned to its gentle rhythm, and beyond the glass, the world seemed, for a brief moment, awake.

As the neon sign flickered one last time, Jack lifted his eyes, a faint, weary smile breaking through.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time I logged off.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s time we all did — just long enough to remember what being alive feels like.”

Host: And in that still moment, with the rain gone and the air clear, the city seemed to take a long, quiet breath — as if agreeing with them both. The light dimmed. The scene faded.

End.