Hi, my name is Jane," I say, fidgeting with the edge of my laptop. "And I am in a tab crisis."

A chorus of murmured "Hi, Jane" fills the dimly lit communal basement. The circle of mismatched chairs creaks as everyone leans in, some gripping mugs of stale coffee or herbal tea like talismans.

"It started so innocently," I confess, clutching my hot chocolate mug like it’s a life raft. "Ten tabs—just a bit of multitasking, I thought. I felt productive, powerful. Then it became 50. I told myself it was 'efficient research.' I even searched for articles about how tabs actually boost productivity—but of course, I kept them open, you know, just in case I wanted to refer back."

Heads nod knowingly. One guy in a hoodie mutters, "The ‘just in case’ tab is the gateway tab."

"Exactly!" I exclaim, encouraged by the solidarity. "But now... I’m over 200 tabs deep." Gasps ripple through the room. "I don't know what's open anymore. My laptop fan sounds like a jet engine trying to take off, and I’m pretty sure one of those tabs holds the meaning of life, but I can’t find it. It's probably buried between my 47 past searches for 'best ergonomic mouse' and 23 recipe blogs explaining why their lasagna is the greatest. And—" my voice drops to a whisper— "one of them has been playing random music for a week and I can't find it."

The room erupts in horrified murmurs. Carol, a woman in a business suit with a dangerous gleam in her eye, raises a trembling hand. "I hear you. I once kept a tab open for eight years. Eight. It was an article on ‘How to Get Your Life Together.’ Spoiler alert—I never read it."

"Preach it!" someone shouts, and Carol sits back smugly, sipping her decaf tea like she just dropped a mic.

"But it gets worse," I continue, and five attendees cup their mouths in unison, anticipation tightening the air. "I think my tabs are multiplying on their own. I definitely didn’t open seven Reddit threads on 'how to organize tabs,' but there they are, judging me. I can feel them mocking me every time I alt-tab. And Chrome... oh, um, Chrome. It crashed the other day. When it asked if I wanted to 'restore previous session,' I blacked out for a second. That’s how bad it’s gotten."

The group collectively winces. A young woman with neon-pink hair mutters, "I once restored a session with 472 tabs. My laptop never recovered."

Dave, the group leader, raises a calming hand. "Let’s remember: this is a safe space."

Another attendee whispers reverently, "Brave browser," and I shift uncomfortably.

"So I switched to the Brave browser a year ago, but it started there too. Soon I had a copy of the 200 tabs there as well," I admit, shame flooding my cheeks. "It’s like they’re alive, Dave. I swear, last night I saw one tab titled ‘Lorem Ipsum’ and I’ve never searched fake Latin placeholder text."

"It’s not just about the tabs," Dave says, holding up a battered Chromebook as a visual aid. "It’s about what the tabs represent. False hope. Unfinished dreams. A digital purgatory of maybe later. We’re here to help you let go."

"But what if one of those tabs is important?" I blurt out. "What if it’s the article that finally teaches me how to stop overthinking? Or the video that explains the missing link between general relativity and quantum physics?"

"Jane," Dave says gently, "if it was important, you’d have bookmarked it. That’s what bookmarks are for."

The room gasps. Carol faints, knocking over a folding chair.

"No offense," I say, trying to ignore Carol’s collapse, "but bookmarks are for quitters. Tabs are where the action is. You open them in the moment! They have potential. Bookmarks are just... organized abandonment."

"That’s the addiction talking," Dave says, his voice calm but firm. "It’s time to face the truth. You can’t do it all. No one can."

"But what if I close a tab and forget what it was?" I whisper, my voice breaking. "What if I lose the meaning of life? Besides, I can stop anytime I want."

Dave leans forward, radiating the calm authority of someone who once wrestled his own tab demons and won. "You won’t lose it. You’ll just search for it again later."

The room erupts in broken applause. Carol comes to, muttering something about "Ctrl+Shift+T," while the guy in the hoodie starts a slow clap. Someone in the back pulls out their phone, only to freeze in panic as a cacophony of open apps blares back at them. They shove it away like it’s a live grenade.

As the meeting wraps up, Dave reminds us of the Tabaholics Anonymous motto: "Close one tab at a time."

I feel a tiny flicker of hope. Maybe I’ll start small—close a tab or two, bookmark an article, even leave a comment on that YouTube video about how to escape tab addiction. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m just going to open one more tab. You know, just to look up ‘Tabaholics Anonymous success stories.’ It’s research, after all. Very efficient.