100/100 23

We all sat together, inebriated on cheese and cheap wine, flipping through the DVDs trying to find something that would signify the closing of the year. We gave up and selected the one that all of us had memorized, providing a soundtrack to our final celebration. All of us, actors, painters, producers, and writers, watched the minutes go by, bracing ourselves for the tomorrow that held our hopes and fears. Each of us at that moment wanted this year to be -the- year, and the television uttered a single line as the clock struck midnight.

"The hammer is my penis."

100/100 -22-

The envelope lay next to the razor. Elise had given him the envelope a year ago, before she’d disappeared. One day, she’d said, he would follow her on the journey. The moment it became too much, she’d said pleadingly, he had to read the message. Wiping his eyes, he cut open the envelope. A small introduction card fell out, written in her beautiful script.

“Have you considered going mad instead?”

He laughed. And the tears that fell didn’t stop the laughter. The razor dropped like a swan’s fart in his hands as the melody of Elise’s voice echoed in platinum.

Wouldn't it be better if it was all about you?

Think of the comfort. Your delights would be shared, your outrages would be met, and even more, people would have to think your opinions were valid and worth acknowledging.

Blogging feeds this mentality. The shortforms amplify it further. People exist only in reaction to you, your likes and dislikes. And in being soundless icons on a screen, you can treat them any way that you like. The distance between people grows ever wider.

I want the world to be all about me. It's hard to get rid of that feeling. It isn't about me, or about them. The world is, and will be after I'm gone.

And before I act or react in the hopes that it's all about me, I have to remind myself that the world is.