Chewed Up, Spat Out. You ever felt this way? I didn’t have the words for this emotion until recently, but they’re perfect. Chewed up, and spat out. Ha. Awesome.
You ever get sick of I? I did this and I did that? It’s so obvious sometimes it’s painful. It’s that guy who spends an hour giving you a personal tour of his mansion and insisting you sit in his hummer without a single HOW ARE YOU DOING? I myself am guilty by association. Guilty of trying to shout from the highest hilltop LOOK AT HOW F*CKING GOOD I AM. JUST LOOK AT HOW F*CKING GOOD I AM.
The “stars” in pop music videos are the worst perpetrators of this (fine if they can actually walk the walk), but the tinterweb is also rife with twits clambering over each other for attention. Be damned if I’m another. If you are selling something, which really is f*cking good, then you may be excused, but otherwise, what’s the point, what’s the message, apart impressing upon me how f*cking good you are? Change the record why don’t’cha? You’re not good, as a matter of fact. You’re NO good. You’re bum.
Twitter is best for blowing your own trumpet. Facebook is best for stalking and slobbering over your friends. This blogging concept is headed for a brick wall. It’d be best suited for journalistic reporting. Otherwise, it’s the epitome of solitary self-expression for any berk with an IP address, and the standards are so low they’re bottomless.
Where do you draw the line at what you think might be interesting, without crawling so far up your own ass pipe that you need a flashlight to find your way back out? The impulse to take a picture of everything and share everything and give a title to everything...aw hell, enough. You just know that someone somewhere (Ron Todd) is posting pictures of their turds in the bog – maybe even a thumbs-up beside their own bonk-on. Always someone, somewhere...
Forget cleanliness: It is consistency that is next to godliness. One slip and it’s over. Finito. Gone.