If you haven’t noticed, I’m an old paranoiac. I don’t like the idea of “registering” if I decide to purchase something like a pair of socks. In the past, I politely declined the offers, but in the past couple of days, I have been strong-armed at least thrice. Today at the store, the cashier just demanded information. It seems the computer is programmed not to accept payment until you register. I stopped at a bank, and the teller had his mind made up I was to get an account with his bank, which included services like tracking my every purchase. Swell. He settled for taking my phone number so he could call and remind me when I wasn’t in such a rush. Then, making an online purchase with a prepaid credit card, I had to supply my email address, birthday, and I don’t know what. I mean, what would the IRS – I mean facebook – do if I, say, went to McDonald’s to buy a McChicken sandwich against the FLOTUS’ counsel? As one who has had my debit card frozen three times already, I suppose they would freeze it again until my balance was high enough for steak and arugula.