When people talk about "getting off the grid," the image that usually springs to my mind is the full-on pioneer fantasy: selling the house, buying 40 acres in the bush, installing solar panels, drilling a well, raising chickens, and growing enough potatoes to survive the next ice age.

I envy those people. Honestly, I do.

But let's be real—most of us aren't cut out for that level of commitment, and most of us don't need to be -— yet. At least for a little while, we can probably muddle along semi-attached to the system—still buying groceries at Loblaws, paying the hydro bill to whatever soulless utility now owns it, and calling an ambulance if we get flattened by a Tesla.

But after what happened to me this morning—for the umpteenth time—I've come to understand "off the grid" in an entirely different, far more urgent way. It no longer means geographical escape. It means digital and bureaucratic escape. It means refusing to let the Machine feed on my time, my sanity, and my personal data one byte at a time.

This morning, I tried to open a simple account with a Canadian service that lets you buy Bitcoin directly through your bank. Now, don't get me started about Bitcoin, digital currency, gold, silver, and all that crap. That is a hellhole in its own right. I'll save that for another article down the road (maybe).

What should have taken ten minutes turned into an hour-long descent into perdition. Upload passport. Upload driver's license. Take selfie. Take another selfie, this time with your firstborn in arms. Turn head 30 degrees so the algorithm can see your left ear. Hold up a piece of paper with today's date scrawled on it.

Wait.

Wait some more.