It all started innocently enough — just trying to find a Discman to play that one scratched-up mix CD from high school labeled “Ultimate Feels Vol. 2.” But one late-night eBay scroll turned into a rabbit hole of vintage Sony Discman models, anti-skip bragging rights, and forums full of middle-aged warriors debating whether the ESP Max on a 2001 Panasonic was better than the Mega Bass on a ’98 Aiwa. Suddenly, I wasn’t just reliving my youth — I was negotiating shipping rates with a guy in Slovakia for a translucent blue Sanyo with “futuristic” top-loading action. My family hasn’t made eye contact with me since the “Unboxing of the JVC XL-PG5,” which I filmed in full 4K and narrated like it was a nature documentary.

Now I judge people not by their music taste, but by whether they know that a lid-lock mechanism was the true sign of luxury in 2003. My bookshelf used to hold novels and framed photos — now it’s a shrine to circular plastic marvels that came with belt clips nobody used and headphone jacks engineered to break under a stiff breeze. I listen to CDs like it’s a sacred ritual, holding the player level with two hands like a pizza so the laser doesn’t skip during Track 4 (bonus acoustic version). Sure, Spotify’s easier, but where’s the thrill in that? If your music doesn’t come with the constant threat of sudden silence and AA battery bankruptcy, are you even really listening?