One With the Machine

After much consternation, I have finally come to acquiesce my will to the intrawebs. For too long my realm of existence has been limited to the meaty exchanges of reality. But now, I enter the perversely expansive ambit of the internet. The machine. With a cable plugged into every orifice I find inoffensive. We live in an era of digital promiscuity, trading in privacy and intimacy for the brief satisfaction of intellecutal embrace. We are a generation of information whores, gladly putting out our most private, sensitive, tender, moist experiences to the orgy of the internet. We are voyeuristic sluts, getting our jollies out of our invasive entreaties into the lives of others. As prententious and egotistic as he was, Andy Warhol's prediction has come true, and everyone now has their 15 minutes of fame. But in the future, as conciousness homogenizes through instantaneous information exchange, we will kill for a simple 15 minutes of anonymity. To swear, to sigh, to shit without the prying eyes of the people, to keep the masses ignorant of our faults and follies, to merely maintain some semblance of individuality will be an ephemeral dream as unlikely as it is lucid.

And yet, here I am...making a little plot of the internet my own personal space to make myself public. How ironic.

For the anarchist I profess to be, this an awfully subversive act against my individuality. Too bad a public bitch box is more important to me that my own integrity.