I don’t need a costume for Halloween and neither do you. We are all well-suited monsters that gather round whenever the beast of the moment sounds the alarm for attention.
So, this is crazy.
I applied for a job at a reputable news organization that caters to the entertainment elite, and while I knew that this opportunity was going to wear me out — I didn’t expect to be callously disillusioned by the mere audacity of the operations that regulate the time spent in marketing exploits.
I will say it now and I will say it again — this field of work is riddled with weeds that have sprouted out with gross negligence. I thought I knew what needed to be done but the truth is that I am a relic.
An old fart that farts her way through the task of assembling a long line of nicely dressed products for the supermarket of social media — that needs to pick the litter in order to decide which items make the cut — into the bin of recognition and verification.
Why was I so blatantly dismissive of what everyone else has seemingly accepted as the standard?
I have been prancing around, decked out in bejeweled fare while you have been wondering why I am still stuck in a time warp.
I totally get it now.
We are writers but we don’t write — we connive our way through fields of aggregated debris that fly through the air at a moments notice. We construct the ideology of what we think we are and then maintain that script for the benefit of listicles — that add our bylines for the hoopla of up and comers who believe that what we sell is worth the investment.
We are writers who spend more than half our time deciding how to pretty up the headlines so that users are swayed enough to add numbers to the traffic that can’t stop, won’t stop, will not end!
Yes, we write but we scope the field for the emojis. And the editors who sit at home after a long day of social media — drunkenly overrun the books of record that once held the entrance to what they aced for — back in the day.
I am now an editor and fuck you! I hate being an editor. You know why?
Yes, of course you do.
You are twenty-five and persuasive in your clicks and licks for attention. You were born and bred to make my life an utter nightmare — but not on purpose. Believe me, if I had been born in 1989 — I too would comprehend how the numbers go before the letters of literary scrutiny.
But, I am an old timer, sitting at the edge of a bed that belongs to someone else — no longer wondering how to greet the season of make-believe with respect and resounding abbreviation.
The assigned emoji never left my side and I am weary with the knowledge that I provided enough fodder to keep my detractors and stunned crew — entertained and frightened for a lifetime.
Here I am — naked and alphabetically disoriented. Just the way we like us.