raoul duke {say no to ugly}

Listen to me.All of you, and you know who I'm talking to. I flip through your profiles where you list you are 'this and this and this' and you do 'this and this and this' and you 'won't take shit' or you're 'agressive and hard to like' and whatnot and so on and so forth... Damn you. It's all lies, and you know it. You've taken the internet and manufactured a personality. You've gone beyond listing ice cream and cheese under likes, and bad gas and maybe a certain brand of soup under dislikes and built a person that only exists on your board. Picutes taken with the contrast up to hide your blemishes and imperfections, shadows cast to make your stomach look washboard, witty quotes and song lyrics everywhere.... We're all becoming so fake. Remember before? When dissatisfaction with reality would make you withdraw into yourself? Or maybe...make you stay home and draw more, or write more, or spend more time talking to people that would deal with you long enough to make friendly? That doesn't happen anymore. We bring up our flickering page, blue green, pink black, red black, orange black, purple green - we bring it up and we make a person. We make up things we do, we make up personality quirks...we don't judge ourselves, we don't make observations of our character...we simply make a character. We make up words on forums, and make up abbreviations of chat. We meet other people like us, that are escaping something. Other people that probably aren't having much fun in reality...and if they are...they're probably even worse liars than we thought, initially. It's the beginning of an era - we've become plugged in. Even this essay is being written on a computer. There is no real hope. I walk the halls at school, overhear the younger students talking about what 'happend on chat last night' and hearing about new quirks they added to their profiles, and new Napoleon Dynomite avatars they've found and posted. The more inside the jokes on your page are, the cooler you've become. So...I'm only going to tell you this once. You've become satisfied too early, and you've cut off the umbilical connecting you to your ability to change. There's blood fucking everywhere now, thanks to you, because noone will clean up their own messes, and we're so caught in this world of passwords and private windows and blocks and unblocks and comments and messages that we've become convinced that noone has feelings anymore. We aren't changing. We're getting fatter, we're wearing more makeup. We're running less. We play with each other less...we just do less. We don't work as hard, we don't care as much, and we're more inclined to fantasize and build pretty lives for ourselves based on...nothing. I suppose...I suppose that all of this will just go away when we get older. Our romantisized personalities. We'll get bored with ourselves, eventually