Salutations, dewy-eyed fuckstick.
I’ve met you before, of course. I’ve met the type you are, the way you are, and your dreams you think you’re selling are nothing new.
Your whole culture is poison, shifting its language and buzzwords and goals on a whim to satisfy what you think people are going to buy into. You’ve sat back and seen what everyone else is doing, tried to figure out who is succeeding the most, and then you’ve done exactly what they are doing, except different. You’re nothing new but everything you are depends on convincing me you’re something new. You’re not.
You stand at the parties and the paid-for open bars and the shitty trailer-display fake-clubs and act like you want to be there, to find the right people to talk to, and make all the right connections. You don’t even know how dead your eyes look. You probably don’t even have a clue how you sound anymore, with your squeezed-together meatball of catchphrase and cool-not-cool references meant to pull in money and fan-friends like some sort of evolutionary-lucky flower catches bees. I’m not that bee. I might have been your bee once, but I am so no longer your bee.
You buy space and you allocate your meager funds and you shift your stories and you scrum your agile and everything is going to be a-ok, every day, every meaningful life-moment you’re experiencing now. You have a card that calls you a made-up title and a group that calls you a made-up name and this could be anything, anywhere, and you will ride it as surely as you rode life to this point, even when the darkness was behind you instead of in front.
So when your fluffball fake-dream bullshit story is choking down some part of the world, well, on its own, who cares? Not everyone gets to be lead dog. Some don’t even realize dogmeat’s on the menu until it’s too late. Fine enough for me – get into your car or walk down to your cafe, or stroll past your workshare’s hope-chest of names in the directory and take that elevator to the empty toy-room of your latest squashed-name pony show. Do that all damn day, until you write some essay that reads like the Dalai Lama after nine beers about you doing something else, whether it be to join some grey battleship selling 0.9 widgets for the price of 1.1 or playing drool-parent to your un-special offspring.
No, see, that’s a-ok. You go there, sport. You ride that all the way down to the splash.
The problem, that is, the part that gets me involved, is if your lame bulging sellout craptastic shell-game touches lives. Not just the throwing of coin at food servers or your soaking up the phone-line at the local pizza joint every Thursday. No, I mean lives, and the life they live, and what you’re taking from them.
You’ve glazed over, and that’s a shame, because this is where you should be listening.
But follow-through isn’t your style. Beginnings, big bangs, huge throwdowns and declarations of success at cusp of the outset of the firsts – that’s your place, and where you live every damn day of the journey.
But, see, your story is as old as the hills, as dead as the moon, as tired as the second snooze alarm. And I’m tired of you telling it.
It’s the end, you see, and that’s when I get involved. The end. The big goodbye. The moment when you realize you aren’t pulling down rainbows, you’re pushing up daisies. That’s where I am these days, kicking around, holding the hands of the people stuck with you after your shining balloon fills with lead. I’m all crazy hat and loud voice, and when you most want to mourn your dream and turn to lighter lands, I’m there to drag you down where the bodies are buried.
When does it happen? When do you turn away from people you claim you worked for, loved, cared for, admired? Were those promises just words? Spoiler – they were. You don’t care for your customers, your audience, your fan-friends, your follows; any more than you care what leaf that bug you stepped on was carrying. It’s old hat, it’s yesterday.
Well, guess what.
It’s a brand new day here in reality. You have a problem they don’t teach you about in Douchebag Combinator.
The problem is me.
I’m here and I have friends, a team, an army more like, and they realized like I did what you are, that you’re just one segment of the snake but a segment nonetheless. We’re going to watch you, we’re going to hold you close, closer than love, closer than fear, and we’re going to make sure what you want to forget gets remembered forever.
Oh, you’re going to make noise. Making noise is what you do. You’ll use some nasty words, some untoward phrasing, some no-doubt effective-against-some blurbings about politeness and respect. Fine words, fine words indeed; too bad they utter forth from someone who would use their mother’s ashes to salt the plate of a million dollars, should it come to that. Like I said, I know what you are, and my friends do too.
What’s that? What’s that I hear?
Well, now that you ask, what I and all the people like me want are simple things, barely this side of demands, more like expectations… musings really.
We want respect. The real respect, that comes from people to people.
We want a right or two. The right to take back what you begged us to give you, to hold with you, to leave in your care. The right to take it back anytime. Any. Time. Even after the end.
And we want transparency, the sight into all that you are. No black boxes and dark clouds and missing words to hide the gaps.
We want no less.
It’s sad, really. It makes me sad. I’m making this all pretty clear, but I know you’re not listening. Maybe I’m speaking in the voice of the person who knows you’re going to screw this up, knows you’re just another dumb mouth spouting out the same old same old. But maybe, like a jaded player holding out at 17, that things might be a little different this time, that you might say something you never say: I’m sorry, and I will make this right.
Until then, it’ll be what it is, what it always will be. You, and me. You, and me and the people who see the clarity I do and the people who fall for the likes of you.
See you soon. And forever.
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