Mortals have the sweetest evah memes.
Like how PAIN can GO AWAY FOREVAH c/o MIRACULOUS TRANSFORMATION POWAHS under YOUR CONTROL.
But as anywan who's been alive for longer than mebbe a week knows deep in their hearts ... this is delooional crapola of an extraordinarily beguilin' nature.
Because pain always returns -- relentlessly cyclic, eternally abominable, form & content a perfect fit for the TORMENT OF THE DAY.
Jus' like all shades of heart gotta do -- less'n we quit bein' soulful frickin' stalwarts & amputate our juiciest evah exotica in pursuit of 100% paahsitive perfection.*
And this Pain Returns Deal is neither bcs we faultin' out personally, or pain holds elevated dominion over All Known Emo.
Happens bcs our capacity to exalt our best selves ovah our worst (and you might wish to call this "Enviable Talent + Diligent Method = Personal Max Out Beyond Sum of All Parts") is ultimately at the mercy of ...
yeah, so the ZILLIONS OF PEOPLE OTHER THAN YOU do this also --
an' compared to them, you're like 0.00000000001% of anythin' (not that they any kinda organised GROOP, as such) -- plus, evrywan drahps dead on their tits real often whatevah yanno.
(random math here -- but ten zeroes aftah any decimal point always suggests somethin' kinda special. so please read on.)
Anyways, I got a problem with fix-all memes don't look too kinda fancy whenya exzammin' 'em on out -- same as any headline copy appeal seeks to lure your specific ass from outta the void for reasons mebbe ain't got nuthin' to do with like ... your specific actschwl ass.
In an increasingly discriminatory Cosmos packin' shamelessly perfunctory pathways to excloosive wonder, we gotta look in on our vulnerability to drive-by meme fodder -- speshly if'n we writah types with sumthin' to say 'ceptin' mass action drivel gonna damn the planet & its people.
Copy Histoire shows how all killah headlines are bite & swallow perfection -- an' that is before we factor in hunky surfer dudes cruisin' chilled against bluesy sea & sky horizons of yummy.
In a social media vomitscape packin' helmets led astray by pith, wherein lies the value in trooly liberatin' one-liners?
Depends how readily you wanna skip out on a zillion shades of hoomanity ...
... or command oblivion's emptiest void as a self-realised MONSTAH of zero consequence, I guess.
On the basis that most people can't self actialize to save their asses despite customized mantra regimens followed slavishly since they like 10yo (or an unhelpful addiction to anythin' I evah said ovah on Mind Warriors ha!), who's to say what silent headline hierarchies compel nowan to give or withold consent for anythin' they do or don't do?
Wherein lies the unwritten script of the manifestly inevitable?
* why do so many Downhome Truth evangelists got more plastic in their surgery than most oceans got cinema trash screwin' up their fish?