My game is Tweeter-feed. I feed my tweeter all the time to feed my ego but tomorrow I’ll take a step into super-ego.
My goal is to win the championship of the most followers, a head hunter, a collection of human stamps. It doesn’t matter if they care. It doesn’t matter that I’m not pretty enough, or handsome enough, or thin, or rich or talented or famous enough. Sitting at my keyboard I am a nobody. But in my keywords, I am a strong man.
And my goals are to tell my peepers, non-readers, that YOU can turn from your worst to outdo yourselves by also posting sweet tweets to nameless masses and join the make-believe sycophancy where your images can have all the status, toys and prizes, copied and pasted from preferential libraries and glossaries. Pluck your jewels from junk culture…so much to pick from; like poor ugly TV bachelors, like me, looking for life commitments along with comic book super heroes.
Don’t worry about insecurities or middle-class implosions or the waves of future changes. Satisfy the emotional limbic system first before too much logic. Believe in memes. A savior will appear. Truth doesn’t matter. Yesterdays don’t matter.
My cell rings; no need to answer but I note the message.
Our mother is very sick…last days in family room… Sister Mary
My memories fill the laptop screen fading to a smiling face of my mother and a host of yesterdays. A kind, gentle, generous woman who never tweeted once but believed in me minus ego. She taught me by example not to make empty promises, or tell a lie to bully, or hate what is common, normal or decent.
Later, sitting at her calm repose on her death bed with family, it is clear that tomorrow lies groveling and yesterday wins the championship of love that matters.