ENOUGH WITH THE FINGER POINTING, MR. JUDGEMENTAL
For The First Half-Century Of My Time Wasted On This Planet
I sought acceptance within my tribe.
On the occasion I ventured from the shallow end of the small pond I polluted daily and floated deeper into the Great Big Sea of Reality beyond, I discovered exactly who I was.
An irrelevant and troubled, but knowingly damned man.
Smug. Little. Sh!t-Weasel.
“If you can’t say anything nice about others, say it about yourself.”
How I rolled …
My Blissfully Ignorant Existence.
Dismissive irrelevance – satisfied with the prospect of never achieving anything greater than what fate momentary provided – was all the nutrient sustenance of life I required to get on with my day.
Not giving a dump.
Or the weather.
Mosquitoes, especially. They should all go bite themselves.
Or much else.
Where was God in all this?
MY GRANDEST ACCOMPLISHMENT
Was What I Hadn’t Done.
Of the infinite things on this list of Apathy and Neglect, one remained omnipresent:
Being free of the burden of having ever taken a stupid Selfie.
Not one stinking self portrait.
MY CONSCIENCE BE DAMNED
A Buzz Joy Assassin Without Rival.
Always has been.
The bloody alleged mind of mine.
It’d ruined a bunch of lifelong parties hosted by my closest enablers – Wayward Moral Compass and No Regrets.
Have I ever introduced you to the twins of oblivious discontent:
Feelings, What Feelings? and Get Over It!
I’D ALREADY SCRIPTED MY BITTERSWEET EPITAPH
With A Smartass Footnote About Being The Last Surviving Biped – Knuckle-Dragging, Upright Walker – Never To Have Succumbed To The Fate Of Narcissus.
What I’d convinced myself.
And no others.
THEN A BUNCH OF YEARS AGO …
On A Business Trip To San Francisco,
Moseying my hypocritical self through the feigning, failing cool Mongers of Urban Douchery contaminating Union Square …
… I witnessed a Hipster Dink morph himself into a dozen unimaginably pliable positions.
Mortified by a street performer – contortionist nitwit – about to juggle, or worse, shallow, a long metal rod.
WHEN OBVIOUS STRUCK ME THE WAY IT DOES
I’d Realized The Millennial Apocalypse Was Upon Us.
Staring slack jaw, pointing with my chin, at what demonstrative sorcery – phuck’ry – was unfolding before me?
The pretentious mash-up of repugnant plaid, ginger beard and nut-hugging, ankle-fearing jeans – Were Those Even Prescription Glasses, Marshall? – an unholy presence.
THE BIRTH OF THE SELFIE STICK
A year ago, contentment seceded to my plea of necessity.
And, yeah, a
trickle Tsunami of Vanity ensued.
Convincing myself, a nifty profile pic was absolutely requisite in setting up Kuched – and – the most shamelessly vain (tongue-in-cheek) and pompous (more tongue-in-more cheek) article I’ve ever scripted, My Dating Profile: The Unsolicited Confession Of A Lapsed Romantic.
WHY TAKE ONE WHEN YOU CAN HAVE HUNDREDS?
Here’s The Shame:
I did – culminating on a particularly frigid day last February – take dozens.
Many, many dozens.
Of horrific Selfies.
Truly abysmal (s)mug shots.
FUN FACT CONFESSION #1
I’m completely inept at taking photos.
And being photographed.
FUN FACT CONFESSION #2
I Look Dorky,
Because I am dorky.
A ducked-face dweeb.
My smile is uneasy – as unnatural as it is forced and uncomfortable – arguably passable and inoffensive when nature musters up a minor miracle.
The reluctant owner of a smarmy, smack-able half-smirk:
“Constipation frozen by rigor mortis on Pinocchio.”
FUN FACT CONFESSION #3
Digital Enhancements = Instant Gratification.
Photo editing filters.
One has never looked so good by doing so little.
The Selfie posted above?
Yep, I edited the tar out of it.
Much as I could stomach and the app would permit.
Didn’t help much.
Obliterated the deep crevice between my brows.
Kept the sexy skin flaps over the eyes.
Can’t do anything about it. Kind of like those.
My frown line – my good side (by default, right?) – I think its on the left (your right).
Digital light dialed in just so imperceptibly to vanquish the uneven skin tone.
I left enough untouched to suggest I’m not sure what.
FUN FACT CONFESSION #4
Like the dreamy Penthouse shots from the 1970’s.
Yes, adolescent Mike grazed through a few centerfolds in his time.
Its what thirteen year-old boys do.
When they uncover a secret stash of vintage softcore porn wedged behind the toilet tank of a relative’s house.
FOR A RECOVERING NARCISSIST
Taking Selfies Is Akin To A Relapse In Substance Addiction.
Alright, not exactly, but still not good.
I’ll never get it right.
I’M STILL VAIN ENOUGH
Not To Publish My Worst Pic.
take save one.