Preface

Cw7IwZdWQAA1duf-1.jpgSource: Ashton Mills

Writing stifles the brain rot and wards off isolation. At this moment, it feels like a cure. I work from home sourcing viral videos (cute pets, nut shots, tractor fails) from around the world, gingerly feeding the lips and assholes into the TV sausage grinder. While a cush gig, and no honest complaints on my end, my job requires no hashing out dense texts or lofty intellectual pursuits. One year out of college yet not a soul has asked me to interpret nut shots through the lens of Lacanian psychoanalysis. Imagine that! In order to be a marginally functioning adult, I’ve had to deprogram my mental faculties; my deactivated brain leaves me an addled lab rat, chewing off my fur in a failed attempt at self-soothing. (For full disclosure, I am a lip-picker and jaw clencher.) No more required readings or screenings. No more professor comments to prop up my shaky self-esteem. No more writing glorious original essays supported with fact and reasoning. Going back to school isn’t an option because I need the money. So that leaves me with this dang ol’ blog.

And what will I write about?

Identity requires a self-assurance which I’ve always sorely lacked. Indeed, I’ll even feel sheepish to share a link to this blog with those closest to me. Reposting memes on Instagram doesn’t qualify in the least as intimate, however, there are a few brilliant meme creators that deserve to be profiled and archived here. I’m pleased to see one of them using his words. Treating life as a joke and operating under 40 layers of irony is a defensive play, but it’s also one that makes existing bearable. (Reminder: revisit David Foster Wallace’s treatise on ironic media.) Here is where I’ll write about anything and everything that strikes me as relevant and pertinent knowledge for the citizenry of the future. I am not a wannabe news commando or activist crank; I am an observer in the mutant vein of my literary heroes Joan Didion and Jane Austen. (Of course I’ll never measure up to them, but a girl can dream.)

And while I have no illusions about having readers, I’m gripped by the clawing urge to produce at least vaguely literate content for the Google search index. Why? All the livelong day my jaw slackens each time I encounter a vapid Vine star and their vacuous content washes over me like a benzodiazepine dream. In the mainstream world being “relatable” is a prized quality and yet empathy remains elusive. My brain hemorrhages each time my thumb refreshes the News app. If any of these clowns can claim domain in reality, then I sure as shit ain’t afraid to scream into the void. I still envy the charismatic and attractive; people who exist so effortlessly, without apology of explanation. This privileging of charisma over thoughtfulness, however, results in demagoguery and its attendant savagery. The Orange Clown capitalized on this and now the next two years will be a godawful slog chained to the Wheel of Pain.

Might as well write and try to act.

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