Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

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Tag Archives: barber

Twisting All Of Human Reality In Order To Hawk My Homemade Art

I’ve tried your rules, Reality. I would pump each social media post full of my brand of razzle, dazzle, wit, wisdom, and maybe just a hint of nipple, and yet I was never met with the deserved eruption of likes and digital swoons, instead having to settle for a curdling of comments like “barf, gross” and “why don’t you have a shirt on?”   

I thought I could trust you, Reality; that my artistic genius would go immediately noted, lauded, and supported financially to the point where I could pay bills and square my debt with the Dixie Mafia. But, alas, not unlike my online following, my patience has worn thin, and, so, Reality, you have forced my hand to manipulate and ply you in order to fit my whims. I need the money and am running out of space in my apartment to store all of these charming dolls I’ve made out of human hair.

Reality, I will make you fall in love with me.

I’ll need to borrow more from the Dixie Mafia to start—they believe in my dreams even if every legitimate bank does not. I’ll parlay that cash into tons of Internet bots—influencer bots, party bots, bots who only watch Olive Garden commercials—who will flood my social media with a rising tide of likes and positive comments like “beautiful,” “no, not at all creepy,” and “primo nips, bro.”

Primed by my legions of bot followers, social proof theory dictates that real fans will soon flock to this latest apparent trend in modern art and re-purposed hair—no lemmings will want to miss out. Authentic positivity will ooze as my new followers jockey for my attention. Universally beloved, hardly any haters now will ask “Why are you such a sick fuck?” or “Is the hair from dead people?” I’m not sick—I’m a wildly successful artist now; and, second, I don’t know exactly how the barber college operates, like if they let the Freshman class jump right into cutting real hair or if they make them practices on corpses first, so, please, stop asking.

I won’t be content, and neither will the Dixie Mafia. More views and eyeballs will be demanded and so I will join every one of those artist co-op groups, the ones that work to trick the algorithms by having everyone comment and like everyone else’s posts.  I’ll be a machine at liking and commenting—I won’t even laugh or talk any shit when I see stuff that sucks—and, through reciprocity norms, all that virtual goodwill will snowball back to me, and I’ll have to start raiding dumpsters at even more barber colleges.

Google, Facebook, you name it, I’ll be throwing my profits at these pillars to the point that the Internet will just be a warped funnel of existence, every outlet a slippery slope directing you towards Harry Harris dolls, the Wigmaker Playset™, and all the other Hairaphernalia™. I’ll look out over this orgy of skewed consumerism that I’ve wrought, a Reality where everyone is liking and purchasing away in a vain attempt to stay hip and capitalize on this trend that’s verging on a New World Order.

I tried to woo you, Reality, but now I’ll need to trick you into loving me, my artistic genius, and my beautiful, unique nipples—ones where, if you look close, the bumps actually spell out “nacho cookie” in American Braille.

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