I really don't get how any of us fall for it daily. Sinking ourselves in to debt for cheap theatrics. Sweeping orchestral numbers. Panoramics. Bold text. Just so we can see that again.

That one lame and tepid moment we wait hours and months for. Anticipation and squealing fandoms building so that it becomes an obvious rung on the ladder. And heaven forbid that we see that all things end. Legacies, lives, consciousness, constructions, even precious television shows. And if Stocking is to be believed, the cravings are our way of pretending and denying mortality.

Late night and daytime television is exactly what we want to hide from so we shove them out to the fringes of our mediated communion with advertising. Fringed with the most threadbare of content. And we know when they stretch it too far. Yesterday's must-see is dropped for something that will sell the product better. It's all just a matter of funding I suppose. The bottom can only be it's bluntest, while the few frames on the next vehicle to stardom is worth it's weight in gold.

It's frankly gross to know that we're being manipulated. Following fake, longing gazes. Tossing hair as if it were the most natural thing to do. All I can see is the desperation that has been air-brushed out of their eyes. "Did I sell it?" "Did I earn my keep?" "Will you buy another chance to look at me?"

***

This is probably why I will never become a professional artist. I do have a problem with selling myself and it shows when I talk. Not that I don't have that faith in myself, it's just not made to sell.

I'm not made for sale. And I'm more than willing to do things, but I really don't enjoy the feeling of being paid (off). Like there's a guilt associated that I am owed, and in return I owe them. I would much rather be paid, action for an action, item for item.

Maybe that's why Adrian scared me so much. Not like I never had that conversation before. I don't see admitting my mortality and the temporary nature of the things I make as counterintuitive or nihilistic.

It is fact.

This talk about transferring consciousness and transhumanity is another patch to feel semblance of control. Fantasy, and perhaps someday it will be reality. It's taking without consideration of any sort for recpirocation. Conservation of matter and energy come to mind.

And what exactly do you do as a disembodied consciousness until the universe itself gasps its last? Would there even be a way to choose to die when you're just a wave?

Knowing humanity someone would take advantage and I'll be glad to never see the day.

***

I'm worried that it won't go through. I'm worried about life after this is done.

There are others in the exact same boat, fleeing from bad experience and worse memories of what this corporation has done to our lives and hard-earned money. We let it go because there's still slack somewhere in our patience. Emergency rations of "I-just-want-to-make-it-through-this". Move on to whatever we're doing to pay off debts. For the next few decades, if not a lifetime.

It's no longer what you do with it, it's where you find meaning again.

***

I completely neglected to mention my wisdom tooth being pulled. It seems as though it was more of an anticlimax than anything, with all the horrible stories of smashed teeth, cracked jaws and swollen faces. True, I couldn't eat without looking like it was painful to chew but it didn't even hurt when it came to the actual extraction.

Admittedly, I don't have a great relationship with my dentist. He's been pulling, stabbing, cleaning and grinding my teeth my whole life and all I reward him with is blood and a bitten finger. That was a long time ago, though I seemed to have thought everything near my mouth was fair game for a good gnaw.

In return he steadfastly ignores what I have to say and prefers to gossip and swap stories about The Home(is)land with his assistant. Funny, she wasn't there this time, replaced by an even more crotchety Mandarin-speaking lady. I still have no idea why old people like talking to me.

Unlike the last time I had teeth pulled, which involved a miniature crowbar and my front lip frozen so that it touched my nose (think something like, uh, a braying horse), this was mercifully short. The needles barely hurt when I wasn't allowed to engage in my bad habit of clenching my teeth with a large bent syringe wedged between them. Now all I'm left with is an empty socket, enough enamel to make a small die and all the joyful things you need to keep infection at bay.

Now if I can only wait for the morning I don't taste blood on my tongue, I'll send him a thank you note. And now we wait for the second one to cause problems.

Keith