DNF

This brain has been disqualified. Sorry. Every thought therein is not applicable to life today; tomorrow. It has been replaced by server space somewhere in california, where all one could possibly know is indexed an can be readily accessed by any internet-capable device. Thanks google; no you are not a proper noun in my dictionary. Dare I voice my abstract opinion on the topic, with such a tangible fear of rejection by the people. So what is it that people talk about? It has to be something where opinion doesn't play much of a role so much as being a topic where from a view can be easily adjusted to fit the expectations of the audience. Theorizing is out of the question anymore, with every possible real-life scenario already having been played out some place, at some time, leaving room for no one but the most prodigious of minds headroom to speculate. Imagination doesn't quite fit, seeing as how a joke is a joke unless whom it's being told to isn't joking, then it's an insult, a threat, harrassment, belittlement, not funny, a total conversation killer. Wait, I just had an epiphany. Ideas! We can talk about ideas, so after we get ourselves all excited and worked up about what we plan on creating together tomorrow, it all winds up on the cutting room floor again. I think a lot of the time, we talk about other people. It's the high-class small talk we can all be a part of, so long as we don't mind any thought process beyond "smile, nod head". But where does that take us, talking about other people? What about other people do we talk about, what they are talking about? If we're all talking about what they're talking about, and they're talking about what some other people are talking about, and we're all talking about each other, doesn't that mean that we're all wanting to talk about ourselve but would rather say "he said, she said" than "I said"? I say that I think we're all mentally handicapped, based on the fact that our mouths work so well, but we choose to use then for such slanderous garbage. I will take all of that footage off the cutting room floor, piece it together to form a chronological take on everything we've chosen to take part in, perform a score that accentuates all the most dramatic moments with sullen piano riffs and hollow clarinet tones, have the entire audience in rapture trying to find the meaning behind my choice for a complete lack of color in the irises of our protagonist during the commencement ceremony in the last twenty minutes of the movie, only to find out that our hero never wanted to dismiss those academic children up against the wall during lunch in high school. Damn, what a tragedy. We'll make it. I have the drive. And the ability to forget I'm visible.


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