It Will Eat You

If the American population was a ride it would be closed for maintenance, and more likely condemned to be torn down and rebuilt as something better.
What are we mad at today? Boko haram, gay wedding cakes, dead gorillas, Mexican walls, trans rights? Or was all that last month? Or last year? We didn’t fix it, we just kept going. Car crashes we rubbernecked just long enough to slow down traffic, but not long enough to actually have to get out and help.
Anyone who’s ever been whistled at is now hashtagging “metoo” and Hollywood sinks its teeth into the next victim before the blood has even dried from the last kill.
It’s not about the truth – it’s about finding a thing to yell about that makes you feel like you’re doing something.
Part of something.
But mainly you’re just yelling.
Every post you share without verification.
Every hateful slur thrown in an argument.
Every catchphrase parroted from a talk show.
Every meme passed off as your own thought.
Your itchy Facebook finger.
Your confirmation bias.
Your die hard commitment to all the things that don’t matter.
Your team pride and nationalism and unconditional attachment to colors on a uniform or a flag.
Your unwavering opinions on global warming or Islam or economic policy make you look both arrogant and stupid, regardless of what side you’re on.
From the front lines of Black Lives Matter to the stickiest kid in a Carolina trailer park, we’re all just trying to figure it out. You. Me. All of us.
Even the President, who is currently and immaturely spitting the dozens with an Asian Austin Power’s villain, is probably trying to make sense of things in his own way, but he’s a scared child trapped in an office that happens to run the free world.
I legitimately cannot tell the difference between satire and news. Half my feed could be from the Onion or the BBC, and if I were just betting based on the headlines I would have already lost my imaginary kid’s imaginary college fund.
I see one original thought on my feed for every 6 million junk ones. A shark couldn’t smell an objective opinion in these waters.
Our taste borders on obnoxious. We’re the Mr. Furley of the 21st century. It’s like we’re letting our mommies dress us up in garish points of view. “Here, wear this. It’s cool.” It’s really not.
And we even don’t see it happening because we’re wearing headphones and blinders sponsored by iHeart Radio and Red Bull.
Before you click share, before you post that thought, before you add to the jet engine noise that already exists, just pause. Just twenty or thirty seconds to ask yourself if it’s worth it or if you’re doing it because a bell rang and you’re just well-trained.
Because if you don’t extract your head from the machine, it will eat you.




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