Irritations, Hellholes, Mundanity

I suppose on a surface level I'm irritated. My skin is itchy and my lower region is aching. Dull, uneventful, untouched. Constant. Where is this coming from- lack of sleep? No, I've slept well. Lack of water? I've pissed twice in the hour. Perhaps a lack of understanding of my own nutritional needs and a simple case of the 'ball pain.' Not much else to say about that.

On a deeper level, I'm irritated with the state of life right now. I turn to my phone and all I hear about is how awful everything is. RIOT RIOT RIOT! If I turn off my phone, it goes away. Does the problem exist in the physical or simply in the universe? Like a rendering of a quest not mine, an echo of a life unrealized. Running the simulation with no overlap in the main story. My story, untarnished by whatever melodrama the WEF or ICE has cooking up. Am I a bad person for checking out when there's a tuning fork right on the fucking pulse of a violent clitoris? Is it wrong I avoid the feelings altogether by not engaging? You can shake my hand and feel my flesh, but I simply am not there. And I don't plan on being here, either. Leave your anti-anti feelings to yourself, keep your self-burdened hardships on your own plate. I don't want to beg for scraps and change my profile picture and repost that carousel of how to protest the next worst thing. Fuck you, and fuck you for even thinking it's everyone else's problem. You and your scummy tactics; shirking the responsibility of the cause onto the viewer, like some modernized "THE RING" adaptation where a little Palestinian boy crawls out of the TV instead of a drowned girl. Share this reel or die of guilt. 

If it was in the newspaper, do you think you'd feel the same? Are you just that good of a fucking person? If you had to read it and see headlines instead of videos and reactions and live feeds, would you care? You and I aren't living those moments out. Do you know a single soul who's living it? Truly? Or is it all in your head and on your feed? It simply isn't real. None of it is. I promise you. Turn off your phone, exist in the now. You don't like what you're seeing? Fill your tank up with unleaded and hit the highway. If you don't like the smell of shit, wipe your ass and change your diaper. You're not a baby anymore, you have legs. Walk!

I'm irritated with the subtle mundanity in the whole ordeal. What do you mean it's just the times? I don't want to hear about the doom and gloom and impending war and famine and tariffs and scandals. Do you? I'm sure when you and I look back to when we were four years old, and that one curly haired teacher asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, and we looked at the playroom full of little plastic firefighters and cops and army men and doctors, none of us looked around, saw our options, and said "digital activist" or "goon-scroller." Look at us! Neither of us are any of those given professions! You work in a factory, I'm unemployed, we're both addicted to a little device that fits in our palms and shows us pictures of Sophie Rain every time we think of her. It's embarrassing to think that that little guy, all bald and big headed, playing with Playmobil and drinking whole milk, wanted to grow up and serve a higher purpose but now sits in the basement looking at AI images of sharks with shoes on followed by bombings and threats of imminent danger. 

Five minutes of hate, followed by immense joy. What is this? 1984, or Brave New World? Neither. It's so much worse. Why? Because it's not fucking fiction anymore, that's why.



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