Let's Run This Shit Into the Ground: Insincere Present Edition

My Mom kept hitting me with the statistic that 90% of blogs go unread when I tried to give her a blog for Christmas. She accepted, and now I have that residual feeling that you get when you give your parents a blog. She's been more diligent about updating hers that I have about mine, but that is how these things work for the first fleeting days of cyber-citement that transition into the weeks and months of inter-apathy on the disappointment-superhighway. This sensation of slowly giving up on things is something that I know well, and is a very important party of my psyche.

I've given up on intangible things so much that if they were in fact tangible, you could feel them for miles like those nail-imprint-things-that-you-put-your-hands-on. Not counting dreams, hope, love, and prayer, a lot of that footpath of discouragement was paved with half-baked websites that I have been cooking up to varying levels of incompleteness since March of 1998. The TENTH anniversary of this time is coming real soon, and I feel that I've been a comfortable part of the development of the American zeitgeist that has cultivated this mildly autistic generation of bad spellers.

The new social dialogue is a barrel of laughs, rolling straight to the GRAVE. That isn't to say that I'd choose to live in a world where I can't speak in hyperlinks and youtube videos, or spend my days on social networks fawning over girls that thought I was charming at one point in the now distant cyberpast. The technological singularity sounds like the bomb, if not just the atheist nerd's version of the apocalypse, DRRONPAUL style. Then again, becoming a communal mega-conciousness with this world’s Hitlers and q-bags doesn’t sound like the most beautiful thing I could do with nanosupercomputerpower. The growth of the internet stopped being a nightmare for the ghost of Marshall McCluhan, and is now a threat to anyone who doesn’t want to end up a cyborg. Cybernetics should be relegated to the amputees, the Geordi LaForges, the bored, robot cops, and other refuse of society.

To go back to my writers block and creative cock-block that comes (and it doesn't!) when it comes to internet publishing:

In 1998, I had just moved from an increasingly chubby childhood in central Florida to a just plain lonely one in Utah that would be crushing if I had any real interest in making friends there. At that point my family got the internet, and the timeline of myself becoming a successful writer or artist diverged away from my present one of slow, slow death by exposure to beta-level irrelevance and triteness.

This is what I made.

Blame it on the kid that made that bullshit.

Do me a solid, and help me buy the relevance back into my days with things that aren't money.
All the girls I have dated since high school have been awful spellers, and I think that may be the key to the attraction.