I might start to make “Eyeroll Sunday” a thing.
At least until I find a day of the week that it alliteratively pairs better with.
Because I take getting trolled personally. When it involves my creative vanity.
Really – you can compliment or mock my fitness, my boobs, my dazzling smile or even my obviously impeccable taste for fashion (obvious in my capacity to rock a uniform of running tights, a baseball cap, and pair o’ pumas like I’m ready to fckk the world in its face all day long) but it’s not as important. I mean, don’t get me wrong – all these positive comments on how I look or what I wear will make me smile for a moment – but only ephemerally so. Because, somewhere, deep down in the well where the waves of subconsciousness lap at the logic shore, I know all those things will eventually shrivel up and leave me as I slowly disintegrate into a sentient raisin, only to be shoved along piss scented hallways of the local… wait… where am I? Who am I?
And who are you?
See? It’s already happening as we speak. I just turned thirty, so obv. I’m halfway to a catheter and talking about 9/11 to young people who will hear it the way I would have heard old folk drone on about the Titanic when I was a kid: “OMG cutest movie ever! I love Leo!” Sidenote: I don’t usually employ the joke killer phrase of “just kidding” but I’m not sure if I can even joke about being that dumb at age ten. Arguably, I was actually far smarter at a decade old than I am now.
Which is why, I suppose, why – compared to all those aforementioned compliments about externals – I have a constant need now, not for outer shiz to be as validated (I’ll still take it) but for my creativity to be validated. Because like I said – looks are fleeting. I can’t control them. I can control what I create though. Making art is like making yourself a whore to the cosmos who then pork you in the third eye till you give birth all over the page, piano, sketchpad… And the only contraceptive between me and my work is my own array of anxieties about insignificant life B.S. That and when my ass hurts from getting effed by my transcendent muses hour after hour (AKA sitting for too long. Like I’m realizing I have been right now. Which you can probably tell by my uninspired ramblings). So I’ll get to my point.
Generally, I try my hardest.
So, I take it as a deep, deep offense when Borat bot shows up.
And trolls me with my own “Oh goodie! A compliment!” reaction to his spam comment.
Like Tinkerbell, I need applause to stay alive.
Don’t be selfish, guys. Do it for Neverland.
(I’ll take my validation via PayPal or check, thx).