谁帮我翻译这篇文章

谁帮我翻译这篇文章 A virtual life After too long on the Net, even a phone call can be a shock. My boyfriend’s Liverpool accent suddenly becomes impossible to interpret after his easily understood words on screen; a secretary’s clipped tone seems more rejecting than I’d imagined it would be. Time itself becomes fluid—hours become minutes, or seconds stretch into days. Weekends, once a highlight of my week, are now just two ordinary days. For the last three years, since I stopped working as a television producer, I have done much of my work as a telecommuter. I submit articles and edit them via email and communicate with colleagues on Internet mailing lists. My boyfriend lives in England, so much of our relationship is also computer-assisted. If I desired, I could stay inside for weeks without wanting anything. I can order food, and manage my money, love and work. In fact, at times I have spent as long as three weeks alone at home, going out only to get mail and buy newspapers and groceries. I watched most of the endless snowstorm of’96 on TV. But after a while, life itself begins to feel unreal. I start to feel as though I’ve become one with my machines, taking data in, spitting them back out, just another link in the Net. Others on line report the same symptoms. We start to feel an aversion to outside forms of socializing. We have become the Net critics’ worst nightmare. What first seemed like a luxury, crawling from bed to computer, not worrying about hair, and clothes and face, has become a form of escape, a lack of discipline. And once you start replacing real human contact with cyber-interaction, coming back out of the cave can be quite difficult. I find myself shyer, more cautious, more anxious. Or conversely, when suddenly confronted with real live humans, I get overexcited, speak too much, interrupt. I constantly worry if I am dressed appropriately, that perhaps I’ve actually forgotten to put on a skirt and walked outside in the T-shirt and underwear I sleep and live in. At times, I turn on the television and just leave it to talk away in the background, something that I’d never done previously. The voices of the programs are comforting, but then I’m jarred by the commercial. I find myself sucked in by soap operas, or needing to keep up with the latest news and the weather. “Dateline,” “Frontline,” “Nightline,” CNN, New York 1, every possible angle of every story over and over and over, even when they are of no possible use to me. Work moves into the background. I decide to check my email. On line, I find myself attacking everyone in sight. I am bad-tempered, and easily angered. I find everyone on my mailing list insensitive, believing that they’ve forgotten that there are people actually reading their wounding remarks. I don’t realize that I’m projecting until after I’ve been embarrassed by someone who politely points out that I’ve attacked her for agreeing with me. When I’m in this state, I fight my boyfriend as well, misinterpreting his intentions because of the lack of emotional cues given by our typed dialogue. The fight takes hours, because the system keeps crashing. I say a line, then he does, then crash! And yet we keep on, doggedly. I’d never realized how important daily routine is: dressing for work, sleeping normal hours. I’d never thought I relied so much on co-workers for company. I began to understand why long-term unemployment can be so damaging, why life without an externally supported daily plan can lead to higher rates of drug abuse, crime, suicide. To restore balance to my life, I force myself back into the real word. I call people, arrange to meet with the few remaining friends who haven’t fled New York City. I try to at least get to the gym, so as to set apart the weekend from the rest of my week. I arrange interviews for stories, doctor’s appointments—anything to get me out of the house and connected with others. But sometimes being face to face is too much. I see a friend and her ringing laughter is intolerable—the noise of conversation in the restaurant, unbearable. I make my excuses and flee. I re-enter my apartment and run to the computer as though it were a place of safety. I click on the modem, the once-annoying sound of the connection now as pleasant as my favorite tune. I enter my password. The real world disappears.