When did it all change?
One day you’re running, making mud pies with the neighbors. The next you’re playing politics on Instagram. Welcome to technology. It’s not who you are, but what you can lead on. It’s not what you think, but what brands you’re wearing. It’s not experiences you had, but the pictures you took. Excitement isn’t enough. Happiness isn’t what it use to be. Instead, everyone needs to be riddled with jealousy from your snap. They have to drool over your Instagram boat party. What happened? When did the thing that connects all of us become a vicious status imposing instrument? When did we become all blinded by the surface? Terrified of the depth?
And if you do break free? It can’t be ignored. No one can unread between the lines. You swipe through multiple pictures. Read different profiles. Sarah, Amber, Lia. All different faces, ages, outfits, likes, and dislikes. Yet they’re all strikingly similar. They cry out for the same shit. Hell, if you talk to a LIVE person. Flesh and blood. Brain and body. They want the same thing. The universe is random. We’re all frightened. We’re all alone. We crave meaning, but also to be understood. We are compelled to go on our own meaningless pilgrimages. Even though we’re surrounded by these things, blindness only shows what we think we want. And these trials? They sting but don’t burn. They leave wounds but no scar. At the end, they just make it all too concise and too clear.
Here I watch my six year old niece. Falling off the couch, while reaching for a cookie. Her eyes scanning and the brain buffers. The desk moved. The chair is rearranged. The curtains weren’t there before. All is strikingly familiar, yet undeniably different. Which cues the voice in the back of my head.
When did it all change?
Why do they all look the same?
I mean I get that every girl has different aspects. Different phases that make them look or act a certain way. But it like they all want to throw that shit away and look like this idealized version. Or worse, look the exact opposite and shove it in your face. Two extremes. I just want someone in the middle. Why does my writing feel like a boring narrative of observations? I did I write a paragraph of a short story an then get back to journals of my internal dialog. I’ll you why.
Girls in spandex.
Thanks winter. You’ve completely fucked my entire conscious creativity stream like a…….
Fuck see. The same chick walked back out after grabbing her whatever the fuck breakfast and overly emphasized her strut all the way back to the Jeep Cherokee. I don’t get it. Every girl drives a Jeep Cherokee. Back in the day it was a Grand Am or sometimes a Jetta. But all that stopped after Jessy was shot by Johnny Chen’s crew. Isn’t that some bullshit? The best character of the entire series dies within the first movie. The poor guy coulda gotten a paid like the rest of those fuckers. But no. Michelle Rodriguez was smart. Lost tanked, Resident Evil was shit. Home girl did what she had to do to get paid. Bring me back she said!
Girl in a blue vest running past. Here I am again. Lost train of thought. Why a vest? I never understood the vest concept. I’ve never felt like I’ve needed my torso to be warmer than my extremities. No one has ever gotten frostbite on their hips. It doesn’t fucking work like that. Speaking of frostbite, here comes an elder Asian lady dead sprinting like the terminator. Her arms are locked in her armpits. She looks on a mission. Almost took out the group of girls in front of her. Grabbed her drink and dead sprinted back, cut thru traffic. The horns are buzzing at her. She’s yelling something. Probably about the message she’s late to give.
I’d watch more but my attention was taken elsewhere. Booty shorts walking into work across the street. You have to appreciate the stern commitment to dress code these days. It’s 20 below, snowing and blowing outside. None of that will stop a guy’s hard on. Nor the extra money he’ll drop for snapshots in the spank bank later. Now back to garbage in my head. I had a few good ideas last week. I had a funny one today at the gym. But now the keyboard is out. I’m even typing. Words are forming. Hell, one person might start to read, then probably hang himself out of the sheer stupidity of how bad it is. He would go to extreme lengths of making his noose. It’s be a completely custom design that has DARBY is fucking retard braided in different colored yarn, just so everyone has no questions as to why it was done. There would be a massive investigation where I would finally get a bunch of views on this site. CSI would study the shit out of the sub-communication of this post. Eventually placing the blame on Fast and the Furious franchise. Asking questions like how did we not see any of this? Clearly the writing was on the wall.
Still dribbling shit on the keyboard. I took a long pause because two deaf guys were signing next to me. Each gesture made me nervous. The pound on the table was about me. This guy sucks at writing. This guy get too distracted by all the women walking by. This guy can’t even pay a fucking tension to his keyboard. This guy is so thirsty he doesn’t notice the grotesque chins on the girl walking by. He only stares from the chest down. This guy should use that noose in the above paragraph. It’s all garbage. I’m done typing. It’s over fuck being a writer. I’m burning my notebooks. I’m getting rid of my blogs. I’m gonna stop placing “Mark Twain’s long lost hope” in the occupation category for my tax returns. It’s over. This shit is fucking stupid. I’m giving up on this dream. I’m never writing anything again. Not even my name.
….an hour later I finished a story about an actress wearing a vest.