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You know,
For a while I felt like I lived in some dystopian nightmare
Where, sort of, everything, and everyone, I cared about
Was reappropriated by some kind of wimp Stalinist, super-bougie, fake populist, two dates to the prom, snake oil salesman, prosumer, alternate reality. And it was using my life, and my people, and my love to convince the world about how real it was. Give it comfort that itâs having an authentic experience.
But itâs not âfor real. It knows itâs not for real. Thatâs why it has time to tinker with it.
Like gremlins, they wish it actually was what they believe is some desirable or attainable representation of reality, so they just assemble it to appear to be. Like perverted workshop elves.
I probably do the same thing, but Iâm not jazzed about it.
But, what Iâm saying is, itâs not about material-material stuff, proving that car is real, or my hand is real. Itâs taking abstract things, emotions, experiences, and throwing down some smoke bombs and a strobe light, and telling me theyâre real or made, and owned by somebody, IE this guy, and Dr. Lifestyle-Coach-Party-Dadâs got my two tickets to paradise.
You know, you got pick from some âstupid list/endless feeling choice buffetâ of what people can relate to, but the options have become more real than whateverâs going on with the person choosing them.
And Iâm off menu. I canât do anything about it. Do you know what I mean?
These choices are meaningless to me. Itâs like, we have all the most yellow breads and cheeses for your soulâs vegetarian diet.
And, yeah, I know, itâs not a new idea or anything: commercials, advertisement. Blah blah. Kill your TV. Facebook. Obama.
But, do we really need to do this to EACH other now? Like existential entrepreneurial sociopaths? Have we ran out of so many worlds to conquer that now we just take turns brain-colonizing each other?
I mean, is there any other way, because I feel really gross about it?
You know, just anyway besides re-ordering a bunch of other peopleâs memories and then sending them back some VIP invitation to their own life?
Or just selling some new extra steps for validation by generating buyerâs remorse and then absolving it for dollars, and thenbeing a baby about it while getting paid.
Sounds kind of demoralizing, right. Might make it easy to buddy with the darkness if I was that demoralized. Might make it rational.
Pragmatic.
Responsible.
Gremlins, they hate when your kisses blow one at a time. You know, because theyâve âacceptedâ that you got to be like that. Think like that. Like itâs some kind of mature adult compromise, but I donât know, that kind of vaudeville parlor trick is like they read the Wikipedia for The Prince and just grew their bangs out. Made the world their dad, and make a diamond waiting on their allowance. All pouty, punching the clock at the Realness Factory.
How come they donât have that level of cynicism or blow my brains out at the dinner table-contrarian table talk for their own Keebler life-vomit.
Because they hate when kisses blow one at a time because it doesnât say anything about a systemized world. It just says something about their life. About your life.
Who gets to decide the way the world works? Some idea? Or one at a time? Or some idea made by a few jerk-offâs one at a time?
These guys, they want to get paid to slip in their idea every time you could do your one at a time.
Imply youâre one at a time is meaningless because itâs one at a time, and then ask for a dollar, so you can feel good about the choice they took away from you because thatâs just the way the world works because theyâre your witness.
Yeah, youâre going to need a sweet release if you really believe that youâre just supposed to eat it. For breakfast. Everyday. That you can only choose between total anonymity and total witness.
Or, I donât know, you could just love somebody. Or know somebody. Directly.
And push out all the little jaded teenage-grown up gremlins trying to cram their paycheck into all the social space thatâs yet to be monetized into a theme park.
You know, and they can give me People Points every time they get another bit of my space, so I can get my mohawk pierced or whatever. Botox my dog.
But Iâm not into the trade-off, itâs not a reward for me, and I worry I have to do it to be able to work.
Not in a âI donât want to be an adult, I wish I could just escape it all and be a baby againâ kind of way, but in a âam I going to have to act like this to another person to be able to surviveâ kind of way.
Because if I do, Iâm just doing time on another planet. A teenage planet.
And that planetâs got to decide to grow up again, or itâs just going to end up hiring some really crazy Skynet meets Mussolini father figure with no body hair.
âI can wear whatever I want but I got tazed and lobotomized for walking too fast at the people store. And now I have to fire the t shirt cannon at the book burning inside my 1000 year mind-prison or the banks going to take my babyâs avatar.â
And yeah, I would be a gloomy, everythingâs kind of B.S. , so whatever Iâm just making it, elitist underdog, grown-up teenager too if I believed any of that stuff. But I donât.
I donât believe any of that stuff. Iâm not convicted about it you know.
I donât see why thatâs any more rational than saying I want to be a human.
A variable. A human variable. On a teenage planet.
Really, I just donât want to be some nostalgia raffling stooge for the googlable authoritarian capitalist nightmare future that might not happen, but, you know, maybe I am
Maybe we all are.
I donât know, am I trying to sell you something right now?
I donât even know anymore, but Iâm going to keep trying to figure it out.