The more I write in this blog, the more I feel like I should live in a shack in Montana.
It seems that, I dither on about how I'm feeling, or I spill my politics out, with all the gusto I can muster. I guess it's become like my very own manifesto. The truth is, it's just a place to vent. I'm just an average Joe with lofty ambitions, who arrogantly enough, thinks that he should be able to share his intolerances, loves, passions, and fears.
It's late again, and I'm flipping channels, trying to find something that will lull me to sleep. There seems to be nothing but infomercials.
“Pick up the phone, Talk with hot women who will pretend to be interested in your empty life… Who will pretend to fuck you… as long as the VISA isn't maxed…”
I'm amazed at how much money these things must actually make. Selling escapes is a clever way to make some cash. There is nothing to ship, nothing to make (besides small talk, at 5 bucks a minute…) nothing tangible to package. There's almost zero overhead, and you get to make tons of cash, and all you have to do is pretend. Pretend so some poor schmuck can live in fantasyland. It's genius.
It's sad that we have gotten to that place. We now medicate our imagination, much the way we would an illness. Has our society gotten so lonesome? Have we pushed ourselves to that point? I saw a documentary once that tried to explain why kinky sex has come into the spotlight again in our society. The theory was this: we do what we need to, so we can feel something, and in some cases just so we can feel anything. I think I'm inclined to agree.
I think that we live in a world that lost any sense when it comes to its priorities. We are overrun by shitty television, designed to break our will and provide some kind of empty comfort. Commercials bombard our senses, and we bathe in the vapid blue glow of the cathode ray tube. Its mixed messages keep us dulled and confused. Infotainment has replaced legitimate newsgathering. When the biggest news story on CNN is the fact that Brad Pitt has split from Jennifer Aniston, there should be warning bells going off, and yet there are none, Media thrusts stars in front of us like royalty, keeping us at bay while we daydream about the good life. It keeps us from asking important questions, it keeps us quiet.
I often wish that I had the intellect of a kitten. It would be nice not to think too much about things. Imagine a life of complete and blissful ignorance. It must be peaceful. Perhaps I should just sit back, relax and let the TV cook my brain into submission. If you think about it, it's kind of the perfect lobotomy. Passive, yet it doesn't fry the parts needed to function in the vacuum that is 9 to 5. It's a pleasant fiction indeed.
For more information call 1 976 hot chic... ask for Bambi... Trust me... It will only hurt for a second.
End of Transmission
No comments:
Post a Comment