nostalgia train

I’m glad I lived in a time be­fore the internet,
more specif­i­cal­ly be­fore so­cial media,
be­cause sometimes,
only sometimes,
do I won­der if there is some­thing wrong with me for not post­ing lit­er­al up­dates about me or my life every day or oth­er day,
and then I laugh and laugh and laugh and re­mem­ber I’m fuck­ing fine and it’s not some­thing I have to do nor is it some­thing I in­her­ent­ly or sub­con­scious­ly feel I must do …
and yet peo­ple do this …
some­thing they could’ve only done by a stretch of the imagination …
is it even com­pa­ra­ble to send­ing a letter??
 

     Dear Person, 

     Here is a tin­type of my morn­ing meal. I have no ques­tions for you but would love if you shared it with your friends and, should they make any com­ments about it, write them to me as soon as possible. 

     Love, me.
 

Most of you should re­mem­ber what life was like be­fore this menagerie of ran­dom bull­shit, of ran­dom in­cli­na­tions to share, through so­cial me­dia, how or what we are.
 
 

—blu

Flom­mist Blu is an enig­ma. A metaphor wrapped in an al­le­go­ry. ‘I am Jack’s colon. If I get can­cer, I kill Jack.’ Copy­right © 2017 mechanizzm.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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