It’s 2 AM And I Still Know My Name
A long day posting and reposting, tweeting and retweeting, facebooking and aligning the links that lead to steady bank accounts and wages.
Boy! I hope Donald Trump has a longer list of shit he’s poked into because it could be the difference between rich and richer.
No! I don’t mean that.
What I do mean to convey is how it fucking it takes me all day beyond midnight to service the minds of designed robots — who are already too sophisticated to buy into just one entry.
We want more, more more!
Releasing the scoop before others is not enough. It just serves as a handful of more mentions.
I lose my mind daily trying to reassess how to grope you into the adherence of small caps, a full stop before beginning the handle of verified royalty — and a quick hashtag that was just discovered before my mad dash to the toilet for a blissful pee.
Jesus H. Christ! The tears for what we’ve become are crystallized in formation for what we will never be.
I was stuck at my station in vain as I scheduled the offering for the overnight crowd. The sophisticated brood who demand their tweets short and potent.
I got home around 2 am and after stumbling in the dark and figuring out the light — I stood at the bathroom mirror in awe of what I had retained and lost.
I remembered my name and its meaning but the person slipping away from me needed to escape the blatant act occurring with no filters.
I deleted Snapchat a month ago and damn it!