You've settled into the couch with the weight of a man who's earned this moment, already mentally committed to the next two hours, when your brain whispers: *the remote*. It's on the kitchen counter. Three meters away, which in couch-gravity converts to approximately forty-seven. You perform the calculus—is comfort worth the humiliation of standing up within sixty seconds of sitting down?—and lose. As you shuffle across the room like a man being paroled early, you think about all the other things you'll suddenly need once you sit back down, so you start grabbing preventative items: water, phone, that one pillow. You return to the couch as a pack mule with commitment issues. You sit. Your brain immediately asks where you put the remote.