Third person to the world
The constant drone of rock, alt-rock, country, hip-hop, white boy rap, he doesn't care. It infuses, provides the perfect backdrop to the ultimate procrastination, procrastination so strong it is work, he should get a fucking medal for the amount of work he doesn't do. You think it easy, it ain't. He even types in broken English, as close to ebonics as a white boy can get, to let you know how cool he is. He'll give it up soon. Nothing can keep his attention for long.
Snaky pasty not so tasty don't eat them tendrils snaking out, questing, grasping, that's what they are, grab that datastream, that infoflow, that vibrant pulse so lively you can taste it, but it don't move in real-time, no, it's got protocols and timing and strict regulation that punishes those who step out of line just like everything else. You send the IM, you refresh the email, but really it's the eternal question: does someone, somewhere, want to communicate with you? Right here, right now, wherever here is, and however you measure now, it's not instantaneous, sometimes it's painfully slow, your friends are asleep the lazy fuckers and it fills him with rage. Why they sleeping? Do they want you to have nothing to do but masturbate? At least it's the perfect time and place for it, hell we made this digital dogshit pile of history and we lying in it, we fucking wallowing in it, can't read Dilbert without a pair of titties in your face can you?
But they're covered titties, a tiny string bikini, because for God's sake won't somebody think of the CHILDREN?
And yet, and yet, that paper didn't read itself did it? The anger, the ranting, but the papers never write themselves. It takes a doer, and you just a thinker. You do just enough to put the thoughts on paper, digital paper piped at a glorious 60Hz to an LCD monitor, millennia or eons or years of cultural evolution and our thoughts are now DIGITAL!, half-formed and angry, and the teachers they say you brilliant, but you know the truth, the charlatan truth, you did it for the grade, and if you could you'da done less for that grade. Someday you'll figure out how, just like your teachers did.
Snaky pasty not so tasty don't eat them tendrils snaking out, questing, grasping, that's what they are, grab that datastream, that infoflow, that vibrant pulse so lively you can taste it, but it don't move in real-time, no, it's got protocols and timing and strict regulation that punishes those who step out of line just like everything else. You send the IM, you refresh the email, but really it's the eternal question: does someone, somewhere, want to communicate with you? Right here, right now, wherever here is, and however you measure now, it's not instantaneous, sometimes it's painfully slow, your friends are asleep the lazy fuckers and it fills him with rage. Why they sleeping? Do they want you to have nothing to do but masturbate? At least it's the perfect time and place for it, hell we made this digital dogshit pile of history and we lying in it, we fucking wallowing in it, can't read Dilbert without a pair of titties in your face can you?
But they're covered titties, a tiny string bikini, because for God's sake won't somebody think of the CHILDREN?
And yet, and yet, that paper didn't read itself did it? The anger, the ranting, but the papers never write themselves. It takes a doer, and you just a thinker. You do just enough to put the thoughts on paper, digital paper piped at a glorious 60Hz to an LCD monitor, millennia or eons or years of cultural evolution and our thoughts are now DIGITAL!, half-formed and angry, and the teachers they say you brilliant, but you know the truth, the charlatan truth, you did it for the grade, and if you could you'da done less for that grade. Someday you'll figure out how, just like your teachers did.