Microsoft’s Xbox One Chat Headset has a vocal amplification feature so users can hear themselves in the earpiece whilst conversing with friends online. Imagine a friend is talking about finding an old laptop in a closet of his apartment reserved for left-behind items from old roommates. Having ripped out the hard drive from this laptop, that friend found and read a document encompassing more than 200 pages of typed content, which turned out to be a French girl’s journal who moved to Cambridge on a work visa, began classes at MIT, fell hard for a graduate assistant in one of her labs, and was eventually deported for extortion. Of course, that friend went online and found her Facebook page — barely active for five years — as well as the graduate assistant’s, who is married to a woman the French gal had been trying to frame for identity theft. All three people absentmindedly accepted that friend’s friendship requests. Oh, also: there was a deep, dark folder of nudes that friend didn’t tell anyone about but me (though, I’ve never actually seen it).
Belligerent puts the [cis] in survival. What are the three rules of marketing? SEO it: human necessity, appeal to need and a reason to negate the Oxford comma; need, want, entice. It’s like talking to someone as if they’re selling you their life story. Or it’s one of those confession cams from a reality TV show based on a “true story, bro” doc involving an eye witness hired to listen to your tell-all. Ｓｔａｔｕｓ ｕｐｄａｔｅｓ. It’s referring to your cellphone as “touch pad,” because calling people on it hasn’t happened since 2012. It’s Wi-Fi, which never hurt anyone. It’s realizing that Lucifer is still a good name (a.k.a. credit cards a.k.a. The Internet a.k.a. cable a.k.a. lubricant a.k.a. lease agreements a.k.a. rental property a.k.a. S1m0ne). It’s feeling manic, but it’s just the music. The day they commercialize dark matter, tho. Pinnacle swag. Having nightmares. Tricking people into what’s-what. Stretching within. Drinking Red Bull.
It’s sitting backseat on the school bus nailing your first kiss, which is way wetter than you’d expected. It’s the taste in your mouth after vodka: it’s a whipped-cream dance party, standing there contemplating if you’re Jarrod or Lyon. Yet it’s always gotta be about gender. Even in front of these speakers jacked in the eighth. There’s never/always something to be said, but we’re actually just waiting on some returned goods with incentive. “What’s in the bag?” It’s Molly. “It’s your kid’s birthday?” I don’t want to know how your life works, but keep it up, because there’s a posi in they. Hope it was worth it. How big IS your sales staff anyway? Especially when you are subjected to hours of make-out footage, then realize she’s bald while walking into the store and asking for a statue of a hand and arm. You get an IRL *shrug emoji* from her. You find the statue. You ask for change. But what about immortality? Would you kill yourself for eternal ecstasy? Fucking rental property. Everyone in the office is down with it, but you’re not. So tun’t it. X-Rated material being PR’d in a high-profile way, but isn’t it just another website? Or a façade. A faux-façade. 40 years from now: Al Pacino in Mrs. Doubtfire 2. Michael Jackson makes more money dead; hashtag 2Pac & B.I.G.G.I.E. & Eazy-E & Elvis. Pushing a button relentlessly that does NOTHING. AT ALLLL. :( And nobody is allowed to smoke inside anymore. Why?
“jezz PayPal us… we tax-free like that, u kno?” - advertising@tinymixtapes.com
In terms of playing with yourself — today and yesterday — life is solitaire. But in no way is it perverse, and I can see how you’d think that: but no. Just for a sober bit of honesty. It’s the patience it takes to type on a syrup-encrusted keyboard, thinking about sleeping for social reasons (to interact properly with others at work) but still always nodding off. A glint. Which is why you declared the last game of Black Jack you’d ever play would be in Atlantic City with Grams, with Pat Sajak’s hologram next to her laughing so that she’d laugh. But I’m serious: I believe there is some form of meth addiction within me. And now there is an emoji for the eye pyramid symbol, while shape-shifters entwine in the gender of nature. It’s tfw drainage is entering your body. It’s thinking backward from the worst point in your life, only to reconcile with how your ego expanded in the 21st century. Yet, you still up the club. “Who can stand here and look this serious?” Every time, the winner will be GTAV in your underwear pumping that same club music, on the couch, practicing perfection. It’s shaking someone’s hand until it snaps off into a bouquet of roses that you give back to them. Myst-level concoctions. Enjoy the experience of actual confusion.
Oh yeah, her.
What if Facebook were invented to remind us why Socialism doesn’t exist? You think about that, but then your nose starts to bleed, and it’s entirely environmental, and the surrounding atmosphere is what’s eating away your memory. Dancing in a haunted house seems appropriate. Through the window, a crystal-neon skyline melts all delusions of grandeur, as you head to the first-built Wal-Mart in Manhattan. A trillion times the *100 emoji*. Like a koala bear, timid with unregistered ego that’s only visible to the purveyor (WRITER’S NOTE: I mean it, P: PURVEYOR): SOPHIE’S PRODUCT relies on amiable, nonchalant, subconscious confusion [my only clear statement here, for obvious reasons]. Imagine if each human was given a limit to how much stress they can maintain before reaching boiling point, directed by Stephen Spielberg, and paid off critics to bookoo bukaki its praise for commercial, TV-spot purposes. Admitting that you’re swallowing your pride isn’t anything at all, because nobody gives/gave a shit. Not even that friend across Microsoft’s Xbox One Chat Headset. Until he said, “Something about Mexico,” and you never saw him again.
:::::: YOU CAN ACTUALLY LIVE YOURSELF TO DEATH @@@@@ ######