This week I attack the term “original content,” here on Sharing the Hate, and Spreading the Pain. I attack those that spout their pretentious term, while swinging nights away with the pretty people devoid of all intellect. Not ironically, these pretty people all search for, and claim to have “original content.” Let me simplify it for you in one sentence:

I feel infected by your presence.

What? Did I just stutter? You think I said that before….

I still feel infected by your presence, even some six or so months after I first penned the phrase into prose and allegory to feed your mundane appetite for self-awareness. This phrase not even first uttered by me, is still the banner which I hang my flag of blight and decay. The blight and decay is that of “original thought,” “freewill,” and “today’s society.” All are just mere illusions of the herd’s shepherd.

I should have led that flock to the butcher some time long ago to sheer their fragments of disillusionment. They weave the tales of euphemism to make the indigestible palatable. Next time, one must attack the source of their trouble, interaction.

“He’s just disenfranchising the audience again. It will pass.”

And what inalienable right did you have for understanding in the first place? Did I not invite you into my moment of mental masturbation to be a voyeur? Was this experience in pornography for you not brutal enough, or sensual enough?

This time spent backtracking and explaining became the wind beneath my wings, the greatest source of drag for an aircraft trying to lift above the earth. So sickened by the stench, I had to take months off from writing to purify my inner sanctum. Only now has the air cleared enough for me not to want to assault the next person who says, “I do not understand what you mean,” and expects an honest answer in return.

I just simply laugh at them while giving them a scornful look. All the efforts to help explain only led to more questions. With more questions comes more explanation, until you have simplified the process to the point where the original peers you tried to reach out to cannot see the hidden gems of meaning anymore.

If you tell them a story with metaphor, they might begin to understand. Perhaps, I never sought understanding in the first place. El Interweb demands that the masses understand in the process of making yourself more mundane. Teaching others does not make you better at something; the act just turns you into a simplified robot. A thoughtless robot, whose only function is to produce a more efficient version of oneself.

Look, the student has become the master. Nope, the teacher just made themselves obsolete in the process. The student might apply the knowledge, but the gifted teacher lacks the ability to apply knowledge. In actuality, if you tell a person a story using metaphor, they will spend decades warring with each other over the details. They will argue with each other over the details tearing friendships to pieces. The moral is lost somewhere in the exact location of the placement of the rising left sun in some moon’s orbital house.

Here is an original thought for you; perhaps the details are there to simply move the story along. Somewhere between starting a sentence with a conjunction, overusing a semi-colon, and splitting one too many infinities in this narrative, I have managed to oust the detail orientated debater into a frenzy of, “He can’t do that.” To them I reply using broken grabbled shorthand English in the form of a text message telling them to place a well-structured soliloquy where prepositions start to contract.

Sincelery,
Leo