It’s been a while since I posted. It’s because I’ve been stressed. Part of me has started to think that writing this blogs has been sort of counter-intuitive. I have such a mind of a marketer. I am always trying to market my art, my vision, my….everything.
Do you all ever get tired of marketing yourself? Of walking down the hallways at work, hearing the busybodies say “Why aren’t you smiling?” “Smile, this is work!” Do you ever get tired of the those who want you to be on your best behavior, your bright-eyed busy-tailed smiling face, and when you respond with just a dreary “okay”, they scuttle away as though you have broken some foreign cultish code?
Sometimes I wished in some Scandinavian country. I bet they don’t smile as much in those countries. I wish I didn’t have to have my non-smiling face questioned.
I know I probably shouldn’t vent like this on my blog. It goes against what all the prominent bloggers say you should do. In order to gain an audience, you need to write about a similar thing everyday, you need to use certain keywords, you need to do guest posts.
What if I just don’t want to do any of that anymore?
I am thankful I have this hidden alias where I can vent about how I feel.
The internet scares me these days. Since I’ve become pregnant, I’ve harbored less of an interest to tell everyone on Facebook that I ate a Twix bar or that I’m going to an awesome party they aren’t invited to. Facebook has become just a place where everyone’s egos seem to echo through the vapid hallways of over exaggerated stereotypes, a classicism of perspectives, and venomous playground bully attitudes that have grown up to become the dysfunctional white-collared worker next to you. And the next thing you know, you see them posting how their kid is one of the most amazing flute players in the state of Alabama on Facebook, complete with a picture of chubby cheeked Jake holding a golden flute like a trophy of insensitivity that his family has awarded him during his short-lived survival in a dysfunctional nuclear family.
And that’s the majority of Americans. Over 75% of all Americans grow up in a dysfunctional home. It’s ill-willed to expect Jake to be even different. I mean, that alcoholic coworker next to you, who always comes in pale, smelling of gin, and ready to ask you why you can’t lose the 40 pounds they never gained, is the person who is raising the next generation of families. This white collared menace is happy to announce in the work hallways that they are a nihilist, they believe in nothing.
And then we wonder why America is on the brink of a major economic depression. We are a culture of ego-obsessed people trying to get everyone to believe that our Facebook pictures of parties and picnics truly means that we are happy. But when we pull our computer screens and skins back, all that we are able to see is this continual void that not even a new purse, a bottle of gin, a joint, or money can erase. The hole is omniscient throughout the seats of theaters and creates a stench throughout our highway streets. We travel in lined cars the way ants do, and when we are coming home from work, there are other human-ants waking up on the other side of the world, continuing the pattern. Go to work. Go to work. Get to work. Be at work. Do Work. Do Work. Go home. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Sleep. Wake up. Go to work.
How do the rest of you deal with the routine—or more so—how are the rest of you dealing with these vapid personalities who seem to think that the only way to eternal happiness and salvation is through a perfect size-3 body, flawless skin, and enough money to brag their way to feeling like their own identity can be substituted with something as silly as a dollar sign—-how do you all deal?
Because I don’t have any clue in the slightest how to.