Bebop and the myface book party

The worst thing is – in real life we are fucked. We have been born into this place were each of us is a lonely soldier and we must buy the dress from H&M, listen to the album – walk this way, fit into these tyre tracks and ask not where we are going, just walk on, lad. We have this immensely complex thing to do when we go into school every day, and we have to paint a picture of ourselves - this is me, good morning. Let me filter the whirlwind in my head and display what is currently in vogue, let me say what should be said, just look at me and value me in return. But the exchange rate is poor child, we all know that and battles for oil will fuck you up, strong currency can dive and soon you have nothing but dry leaves and the tipex writing on you corduroy rucksack. We are here – yes. This is where people have struggled for years, so I heard. Now we decide that more is needed – please simplify me more, I don’t need those facial expressions or that vocal tone, forget my skin – I was board of it anyway. I don’t need sound of background hum to fill the space. Lets squash it flat. I propose a website. We have them all set up already. It makes sense to represent ourselves that way, flat screen, flat magazine, flat adverts – just squash yourself into the internet my friends – you will be the thing in front of you, no more tiresome understanding of yourself because the box is made for you – just type the music here, the TV here, the films here. Post the photos here and you can just select the ones which fit the image that you reach for, squash it down, cut it out, rearrange it. Add friends, chase the numbers, you may find some peace soon, forget the feeling that your locked outside it all, live inside the hope of messages, daydream profile views, stroke the flat screen shadow of yourself.