Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Still It Keeps

I could be a freelance Porsche blogger, the Internet says, or a freelance sea-going multimedia journalist, which seems a bit high maintenance for freelance, or I could fake feeling flattered when I’m not by emails from men exclaiming things like “No way you’re 38—I’d say 25 tops” or “You cannot possibly be single,” because I know what they’re getting at, underneath shiny exterior language, and the Internet has been referring to a teenage boy who killed himself as “Laser Cat Teen" because his class photo included that weird faux-laser background and he was holding his cat in it, and this sick grave-digging only churns us all deeper, and it’s guess you should have been freelancing on the high seas, kid, or out with a man set to crack what is wrong with you, woman, and I tell the Internet this spam, this cheap meat, does not appeal to me and no, I don’t want your Viagra, your imaginary sluts or your inheritances, either, but still it sends them, messaging my address book bad links, jeering; still it flings slurred party favors.

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