YJ, TIFY (I'm all about stealing Eric's style)
Dear 'net-whores:
Why do you do this? That question was only partly sarcastic; I honestly want to know. What is it in your brain clicks in just such a way that you feel the need to throw yourself genitals-first onto the Internet dogpile? It started out with the blogosphere, when suddenly every idiot (me included!) could broadcast their opinions free of charge and accessible to all. Then MySpace came on the scene, and teenagers everywhere erupted into spontaneous applause. You rushed to take slutty digital pictures of yourselves with pouty faces and expertly-applied eye liner, and you made your webpages so pink and so perfect.
The most important feature in your life, it seems, (besides your pixelated, slightly-out-of-frame photo collection) is the "Add Friend" button on each and every MySpace page. Oh, you came across someone that you knew in second grade? Click. Or someone from another town, but since they posted the EXACT SAME memes as you, they must be cool? To hell with it, click. What about that girl that you don't really talk to but that you see in the hallway every day, or the guy who sat in the same row as you at last year's Homecoming game, or even some 40-year-old fellow from Maine who obviously isn't a pedophile because he, lyke, has your favorite band listed in his interests section and they totally would never let a creep listen to them? Clickity fucking click.
Your collective world, 'net-whores, is one that you've made up. You're living in a rose-tinted plastic bubble; not only does this grand invention of the information age allow you to street-walk in a grander arena than most high schools afford, it deludes you into thinking that people would actually buy tickets. This is so extremely not the case that it pains me to see you strutting about with those scales over your eyes, it really does. I'm sure it would a great service to all involved if I were to use a sharp object and forcibly pry you from your keyboard, leaving forlorn poetry unfinished in my wake. (Really, does the world--anybody's world--need more "I love you so much I want to blow fuck your brains out and feast upon your children stick with you forever" poesy churned out by males in girls' clothing?) I'm sorry if this depostion gives me a slight thrill, but surely you understand that I'm doing this for your own good. Now just follow those nice white-coated men, they'll take you away to a long tunnel with a white light, may you never return.
Signed, your affectionate compatriot in making the world a better place (one e-hooker at a time!):
Maria
Why do you do this? That question was only partly sarcastic; I honestly want to know. What is it in your brain clicks in just such a way that you feel the need to throw yourself genitals-first onto the Internet dogpile? It started out with the blogosphere, when suddenly every idiot (me included!) could broadcast their opinions free of charge and accessible to all. Then MySpace came on the scene, and teenagers everywhere erupted into spontaneous applause. You rushed to take slutty digital pictures of yourselves with pouty faces and expertly-applied eye liner, and you made your webpages so pink and so perfect.
The most important feature in your life, it seems, (besides your pixelated, slightly-out-of-frame photo collection) is the "Add Friend" button on each and every MySpace page. Oh, you came across someone that you knew in second grade? Click. Or someone from another town, but since they posted the EXACT SAME memes as you, they must be cool? To hell with it, click. What about that girl that you don't really talk to but that you see in the hallway every day, or the guy who sat in the same row as you at last year's Homecoming game, or even some 40-year-old fellow from Maine who obviously isn't a pedophile because he, lyke, has your favorite band listed in his interests section and they totally would never let a creep listen to them? Clickity fucking click.
Your collective world, 'net-whores, is one that you've made up. You're living in a rose-tinted plastic bubble; not only does this grand invention of the information age allow you to street-walk in a grander arena than most high schools afford, it deludes you into thinking that people would actually buy tickets. This is so extremely not the case that it pains me to see you strutting about with those scales over your eyes, it really does. I'm sure it would a great service to all involved if I were to use a sharp object and forcibly pry you from your keyboard, leaving forlorn poetry unfinished in my wake. (Really, does the world--anybody's world--need more "I love you so much I want to blow fuck your brains out and feast upon your children stick with you forever" poesy churned out by males in girls' clothing?) I'm sorry if this depostion gives me a slight thrill, but surely you understand that I'm doing this for your own good. Now just follow those nice white-coated men, they'll take you away to a long tunnel with a white light, may you never return.
Signed, your affectionate compatriot in making the world a better place (one e-hooker at a time!):
Maria