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The American Condition ... June 16, 2005
the saffron blue fizzles of the flickering box in my livingroom called me back. i was standing topless in the hallway or some other such nonesense, being entertained by the subtle twitchings of a plastic grocery sack which was being stirred by some side gusts created by the electric fan in the livingroom. it was all too amazing for me, not considering the state i happened to be at the moment. not to go completely off the topic, but there is a funny thing i've noticed about this situation. you see, if i wanted to keep you under the illusion that i had retained some of my lady-like-ness or whatever, i would NEVER, EVER make mention right here of what it was that had led me to be so amazed with a plastic grocery sack in the first place. it would be this strange, unspoken knowledge between us. we would both KNOW. we would go on with the story without my even taking much time to point out this to you. but no. instead i choose to rub this thought into your face until you choke on our collective illusions. i want you to realize with indesputable clarity that i am NOT a lady, nor have i even had the chances of becoming something even resembling a lady in a very, very long time. i will not allow you to remain safely hidden under the idea that perhaps someone had been taking advantage of me or that i had lost my mind. no. i am no one's victim here except perhaps my own, and don't you forget it.
this is the point when i realize that my story really never had a point. it's just me, another lonely and terribly unextraordinary soul, whining about my unextraordinaryness to a room populated only by a sleeping fuckbuddy and a computer. there are alot of kids who would kill my ass right now if that would allow them to take my place, but all i want is an excuse to escape. i'd rather ditch this uncomfortable air conditioned room, this lack of ANYTHING to do, these expensive and finicky things. i have them only so i can have guests, i assume, which is no reason to own anything at all. the only thing i own solely for myself is my computer. i want to ditch everything but my companion, my computer, and go on some wild and mindless adventure. i want my circumstances to require of me that i don't gather up this halo of unneeded things. i can't console myself by telling myself stories about kids who're less fortunate than i am. believe me, i've tried. as far as i'm concerned, those kids might as well not exist.
i mean, i've seen the pictures in national geographic of the little african poor kids with flies in their eyes, but it doesn't make them real or even close enough to real to me that i can even feel like i should be thankful for my own existance. heh. i think i made a rhyme back there....flies in their eyes....heh. see what an insensitive little moron i have become? but you can't really blame me for being so cruel considering the fact that i've never established whether poor little insect knawed m(clicky sound here)bu really exists or not. he's as much a picture in a book to me as the ones in the illustrated Grimm's fairy tales i have from my childhood are. now. show me a picture of that same little fly covered african kid trying to hack my computer and then we can perhaps talk about my being outraged.
funny thing, by the way, but that seems to actually BE the latest thing poor kids from poor countries have taken to doing. hacking my computer and draining my (insert ironic laughter here) extensive bank accounts. maintaining of course that these places really exist, i know that my measly fifteen bucks is probably worth a fortune to some poor starved african family that collectively earns three cents a week, but still. he has to be richer than he's making out to the national geographic he is or he wouldn't be able to afford his membership at the local internet cafe' which serves as the base of operations for his hacking venture. i think i'd like to slap him and then shake his hand if he's got his own computer.
well, the hackers can't be the same ones we have to stare down in the "adopt me!" ads we see pinned up everywhere, anyways. although, we can't be for sure, seeing as how these people, if they even exist, would probably live in a different plane of existance than those of us who actually have to VIEW these retched purse-grabbing ads. we all seem to have realized, deep down, that if m(clicky)bu really does exist, and if he really is normally covered with icky flies, if he normally lays in the mud puddle all swollen from malnutrition like he seems to like to do, he probably isn't the one getting the aid money those ads squeeze out of us when we're feeling emotionally vulnerable. when we suddenly feel our purse strings slipping because we want to kneel down, right there in the bus station, and weep. and there, right there, is the face of m(click)bu, as if on cue like some kind of horrifying little baby bird, all hairless and helpless ready to swallow whatever it is that we have to vomit for him. maybe we felt that way because he was there all along, inside of us. we see his towering and horribly multiplied faces surrounding us, reminding us not of the fact that somewhere, some kid is likely dying from senseless lack, but that right here, right now, WE are dying of another kind of senseless lack. our bank of teary eyed volunteers is waiting to take your credit card numbers, kids!
on the outside, anyone who is anyone is trying to achieve this month's idea of beauty, but on the inside we all look like that photo of m(clicky)bu. we're all hairless (just like we always wanted!) and wrinked (no!) with wide, starvation dulled eyes.
but still, no matter how many there are of him, how many of his dirty little xeroxed clones there are staring down at us from subway station walls and magazine ads and the like, no matter how many of us ARE m(clicky)bu, the poor little guy gets squeezed out of the equation every time, maybe even out of the surity that he even exists. you'd think there would be an army of angry starving little m(click)bus out there, ready to kick the asses of the guys who are taking their aid money for us, so we could all feel better.
just the fact that no one's asses are being kicked tells us that m(clicky)bu has to be mostly made up. maybe there IS some guy out there who happens to be the one the photo. whoever THEY are (YOU know who they are, though i deny any knowledge of their $100,000 a year making existance) probably hired him from a circus freakshow for the photo shoot or something. both parties are probably chuckling and lining their pockets with our pity as i write this. they're profiting from our secret, our destructive self pity.
and we're all damned jealous because WE didn't think of it first.
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