Death of an Operator V.3.0

Yeah, I'm on Facebook, Myspace, I used to have like, three different profiles on Adult Fuck Find, I think I still have one on RedHotSexFuck.com though I haven't looked and couldn't remember the password if I did, There was some other profile somewhere on some other site a few years back that led me to walk up and down the laneway in front of Bond Bar because someone I chatted in the sex way to said she was the bouncer or door bitch there, I walked up and down the laneway, said hello to her, she was about ten foot fucking tall and dark as coal wrapped in chocolate in the bottom of the deep dark sea. I was freaked the fuck out by the cold hearted nature of the whole deal. I think the site was called Adult Friend Finder, which of course is different than Find Adult Friends or Fuck Adult Friends or Fuck Friends Let's Just Fuck which is probably still the most popular. I have, I think four, maybe five email addresses, I don't even know. In the drawer beside my bed, I have a couple of old phones and a few sim cards. I have four different business cards with my name on them. I probably still get sent mail to three, maybe four of the 38 different houses I have now lived in over 34 years. I have an Ebay profile, a Mess and Noise profile, I bid on auctions at Gray's Online, I've got some profile for a music website on the Lower East Side of New York for fuck's. I'm on The Scene, I listen to Ween, I'm a big fat fucking inhuman joke and a number, a cog, in your fucking machine.

It's fucking disgusting.

I'm gonna bunch that shit together, gaffer tape my identity, my soul to my old PC that sits humming and breathing nights next to bed, even though it hasn't been plugged in to a power source for six months, I know it watches me, listens to me, thinks about me, computes my next move, relays the data, cackles and sparks electronic dreams and giggles to the toaster, the TV, the Portable Everything Device which wipes your fucking arse and kisses your Girlfriend goodnight while wrapping your children in their blankets, reading them stories, making sure everyone is asleep, even having your 2am porno ready for when you wake up hard and human as Hell, it fast forwards straight to the scene which will have you demented and contented and stupified in 30 seconds flat, sedated and padding down the hall to bed, to bed, to dream of electric sheep.

You think your brain is expanding, you think you've opened up new worlds of friends, a network, like minded people with amazing brains who write a single fucking word that has you wet and shivering in awe of a mystery who hides behind a screen, a photo, an image, and it'll suck every single fucking one of us unless we remember what's what and who is who and what the wet grass smells like without having to take a digital photo, or think of the words we'll use later to describe it to everyone here, in the Land of the Undead.

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I want the country, that growth, that feeling of being ten foot tall, of being real, of one on ones and easy smiles. This shit stinks like Death. Of you, me and everything we've ever known.

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You know, a few years ago I couldn't give a fuck. Ask my man G, he'll tell you, whatever we couldn't spell, couldn't write, couldn't design, didn't know that Religion was alive in a High St Boutique...we would forget to use apostrophes, we would use bad grammer, we would shock fucking horror, spell IT IS like ITS.

Insert Vampiric Music Stab. Mozart I think works best.

You know then I met some people, some good people, and everyone was chewing cud and grazing in the fields and agreeing with each other about the importance of grammar and spelling, and how it really showed the measure of people, and puerile syntax and worse still, ignorance was scorned or from a great height with a broad, generous heart...pitied.

Because words are Golden, right?

And you who do not have the touch, Midas well give up.

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Status: This may go on all day.
Mood: Happy as all Hell.
Music: You and me and the Devil makes three...
About me: I like profiles. They feed my vanity.

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Time for a bonfire.