This was an untitled segment of a story... One that awaited the doomer writer (typer) to lay its fingers on the dusty rawky plastic board and do some tappy-tappy hyperintelligent AI dance. The person without a name smiles at its creation, feeling the ego of a high-merit life, having achieved one of society's most praised (though hardly arduous in the 21st century) pursuits: to patter dabble the content of one's soul through cryptic figures. The typer had a flicker of an intuition that it was superior than every other soul on Earth because its strength-breaking creation will remain lodged in wasteful internet servers & hard-drives for god knows how much time (by the way, what will the internet look like in 3000 A.C?)
The typer had not thought of anything to write because naturally, it was absolutely mediocre and a doomer at life: more numb than a bucket of crispy chicken, totally fast-crisped and fast-bored, fast-elapsed, this doomer of a dog. It enjoyed simply the idea of this: page 1, word count XXX. That showed its true grit-strength at life, a true waker, someone that wakes-up in the morning and does things. The typer thought this might be quite abstract & modern, a pondering to the blankness & uneditedness of manifactured products, more perfect than matter itself. These tall-ish standing, crustacious curvacious objects that gave you nausea if you stared at them for too long because noone was ever supposed to look at such non-imperfect things. The typer grinned at its metaphors and misusages of language. It wanted its novel to be better than one of historical litterature's finest, because god knows history is dead & modernity wins.
YOU ARE READING
Story by Person who can rawr
RandomI write in here when I feel insane. Read this if you want an uncomfortable trip down the crappy slumbering parts of the human neuronal slush. An ode self-hatred.
