Spitting in your own mouth

Superficial Household Hypocrite Critic

    Sitting on a blue couch that is specifically meant for display and not for my sweaty ass. Resting on the couch are cow-skin pillows that are there for decorative purposes, I hate them. Standing on each side of the couch are identical tables suspended on 4 connected legs. One housing a dying plant with a red bow tie around it. The other holds a pig book shelf, wedged between the intestines and balls are self help books and get rich quick books. Both of which benefit off the quick gratification and stupidity of boomers. Beneath the couch is a cow-skin rug, in my opinion an oddity. Such as it retains dirt and filth rather easy. How does one effectively clean it? I'd assume the dry cleaners . Atop the cow-skin rug is a coffee table that seems completely out of place in this artistically crafted still life known as the Living Room . The coffee tables' wood is chipped , the color is degraded due to the amount of slicing  from cutting tabs, filling up pods, and dropping random things that have no earthly place being on a vintage coffee table. Seated around the coffee table is a tiny pair of yellow chairs with accompanying  identical pillows. Neither chair is creased nor stained . Facing the couch is a post modern minimalist painting of a woman resembling Marge Simpson, only if Marge was an E-Girl who was obsessed with plaid skirts from your local "hipster" thrift shop and showing off her underwear . To the left theres a defanged wooden cheetah staring aimlessly through you. Poor beast is beyond domesticated . Following in similarity, lies the ornately hand carved liquor cabinet from Japan depicting the simplistic life in the area it came from.  Housing several bottles of fine whiskey, bourbon, gin, and vodka. Some are more watered down than others. Damn kids. The room favors consistency, pride in paying someone for their decorative stylings , and a superficial sense of stability.  

    This is the living room, which too many doesn't carry the same meaning as it once did, before technology had put our brains into blender stuck on puree. Then poured onto a tv grill stuck on the shitty infomercial channel at 3 in the morning. If you think you hate yourself think about the people in infomercials. I wonder how many xanaxs they take every morning to forget that tragedy known as their 9-5. Why we still call them living rooms is beyond me as it is such a  specific term for a room that is significantly not "lived" in. Especially since society has coined "living" as being selfish mindless drones, which we've validated by giving into our most animalistic desires warped by the rat race. Instead of waking up in our bedroom hoisting ourselves up to make breakfast then spend time in what in my opinion would be the most fulfilling room. We insist on waking up immediately reading the morning instagram paper. Digesting horse shit from the second our eyes open. What turmoil we choose to give ourselves. Not everyone spends 30 minutes to an hour jerking themselves off to relatable content, shitty horoscopes, nihilistic memes, and stroking themselves to their instagram page.  

We're all dogs which the phones walk. 

    In a simpler time the living room was most likely a present room always with the hustle bustle of life, love, and the feeling of home so many of us don't have. In account to being connected to something that exists out of reach. That we cannot physically grasp, but the dopamine feels nice. Suckling on the tit of  digital approval of how others see us?