THE PERFECT EPITAPH

musings

Wrinkled, Brown

Old and Bitter

Reading News Feeds

On the Shitter…

My perfect epitaph, and what a final exit, no pun intended. Not so glorious, I know. I won’t witness my last moments in heat of battle in some distant, tropical quagmire, or just before making the cut on the Administration’s Kill List for being a thought criminal. No, what better fate to suffer than at the hands of my Feedly reader, a shoddily cleaned porcelain bowl, and the latest and greatest from Zerohedge, while my Google Goggles records my dead carcass emptied of rage and fecal matter for the NSA?

You see, it’s stressful to “care”, and more so, showing the world you care by being a writer. Just ask Eric Blair or Ernest Hemingway. Most people, if, at best, 90% of humanity, has taken the high road and completely stopped giving a shit about the eminent nuclear winter lurking around Fukushima, or that countries around the world are divesting from the US dollar while America brainstorms, sans brains, how to put out that fire they started in the already sweltering hot Middle East. Writers write because talking in a bar about Brussels’ latest ban on high-powered vacuums does not get you any pussy, but it could get published in an insightful periodical on the internet, which could then lead to getting laid.

Speaking of pussy, if the average person is going to go through the trouble of finding information, it better have a fluffy cat pic attached to it. That is social media for you, which ensures that information is short, sweet, full of slogans, popular, properly monitored, and, for the good of humanity and the Party, incorporates shorts and fluffy cats doing rascally naughty things. Hell, if the Messiah came back to Earth, then he had better hold fluffy kittens under both arms, too, because another bruising awaits if he doesn’t sell it this time. The masses of Rome were on fed on bread and circuses. You can eat bread, but you can’t eat two minutes of Miley Cyrus chicken meat slathering Robin Thicke’s outlandish Illuminati costume. Oh, buddy, you’re in for it this millennium.

Not me. I’m Dostoyevsky’s Idiot, and unfortunately, my fair lady is no blonde-haired, blue-eyed maiden of St. Petersburg, but an obsession over the soap opera that has become the State. You will never find a group of people so encompassing of the term “lowest common denominator” and subsequently, so invigorating, until you study politics. For the last three years, between ultraviolent video games, a capricious social life, beer (and lots of it) and yes, sometimes, a YouTube video subscription to the Cotton Candy Cutie Kitty Cats fan page, that has been my obsession. Who needs bread and circuses when you can be a fly on the wall of Arkham? From here, you can see everything, and when you begin to pursue the answers to questions rarely asked, the sanitarium is sometimes the only place you’d rather be.

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