#internet angst

Random Person: “That’s kinda lame”

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by character limits, cramming hysterical accounts of pedicurists,

dragging their phones through shiesty back alleys in search of a few bars

fedora-wearing hipsters looking for wifi under fluorescent

lit up bus stops and the tilted ceiling panels of crowded mall Sbarros,

who, insomniatic and stricken with carpel tunnel, typed subtly in the pew during their sister's wedding, floated through house parties like robo zombies contemplating tagging @ some lucky guest,

who bared their brains to followers large in breadth and varied, laying their diatribes down in dashboards at the palms of other humans,

who passed through universities with the smug light of ironic detachment glowing on their forward-leaning faces,

whose dexterous fingers crackled on keys like fireworks for revolution

who got busted in Stats class for bravely publishing a photo of the teacher mid-nose-pick

who ate LeanCuisines defrosted from the back corners of snowy freezers and flipped through the Facebooks of various middle school nemeses at night,

with dreams of glory, with eyes stretched and acerbic, surface encounters aired as other beings melted to pixels and pictures, the twists of their histories laid bare for any hand to click in jealousy or in jest,

inside jokes passed between Monday mouths, eternal 3AM drunk dialogues frozen in archives, perhaps curled side by side resting their eyes because we never could,

to return years from now, I am told, when we try to get corporate jobs, each uncensored mouth to rot at their good graces in the minds of potential employers with forehead lines bent in unimpressed anguish, precluding any source of income and exiling us thus to the basements of our childhood homes, furiously scanning eHow articles on how to make and sell jewelry,

 all these warnings aside I am currently more plagued by the tendril of possibility that several middle school nemeses are happier than I am now,  the last mega-popular prom picture commented on by scores of fellow beings, the last tryhard-satirical tweet, a single text box of biography for this raw red wad of neurons and synapses pulsing and carrying signals,

Ah Zuckerburg, you are not safe I am not safe and now we’re really in the total html soup of time –

who will click my name when I am gone in a sudden flash to a world without reblogs or wifi? 

who will dream and retweet my impressions in space & time through images juxtaposed to align the noun and dash of my consciousness with Kim Kardashian’s as she asks the world in earnest “why can’t I ever sleep?!!!”

 to recreate the syntax and measure of mediocre human prose and then to stand before you dumb and full of words, checking status updates between classes, rejected yet confessing the inner soul so unidentified faces may nod along and smile,

No, internet provider, don't fuck my shit. I know well enough you're just keeping the bandwith from me. Don't fucking ask me if I have a router. I pay you good money, provide some decent service at least.

Do you hear that? That's the sound of five years of loyalty you bastard. Fuck you and fuck your greedy ways. You didn't fucking call my phone! You bloody sent a text message pretending to be contacting me when in fact, you did not! Hell yeah I had cellphone service you lying piece of shit.

If you were a real person, I'd stick the antenna you gave me for better service up your ass. Since you're a corporate entity, I'll be taking all the antennas I see and just IMPALE the lot of you.