I’m ill. I have been soooo (note too many letters in the word ‘so’ for emphasis) ill. Not only do I want you to imagine the sound of violins being played by angelic female orchestra members… I want you to visually imagine those female musicians. For they are not only fiddling majestically, they are also crying. I have been soooooo ill. And I am still ill. I have only now reached the point where I can type these words, any words. And what words am I going to type? Hmmmm… bear with me here!
I have been binge watching Netflix and YouTube like an incarcerated droog. Nothing wrong with that. I’m ill. I can’t go snow-boarding. There’s only so many activities one can perform in bed. And… before you start sniggering, remember… I’m ill! So I’ve been watching YouTube videos from my subscribed channels. And I have been getting angry. A kind of filtered anger, like cockroaches being pushed through a germ-infested sieve, but anger nonetheless. While I should celebrate the cause of YouTube (and all the manifestations of ‘social media’) it has allowed the idiots to run amok. Just because anyone can now publish his or her opinion (and I hate to say it but I’m mainly talking about males here) does not mean he or she should. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve wanted to choke someone out on screen… or lavish said screen with Tipp-Ex when opinions are manifested as words. Too shy for camera perchance? It wasn’t like this in the past. Idiots couldn’t get air-time, even within their own fish-bowl-sized social groups. This is the rise of the idiot.
Don’t think I don’t realise that this kind of talk sets me up for a fall. A shout in my direction of “You’re an idiot yourself! Using the very same media you’re criticising others for! What makes you so special?”. Well, I’m not so sure what makes me sooooo special. But I insist something does. It’s whether I choose to make the subject of all future videos ‘How special I am’. You know the kind of thing. Videos where I elevate myself to a seat next to Da Vinci and Orson Wells. And Bruce Dickinson if he weren’t alive. Both sides of the bizarro spectrum. The idiots and the self-proclaimed geniuses dancing in the flames, naked, singing pagan songs of love to each other. That’s how YouTube often appears to me. There are sparkling, virginal splashes of shining white brilliance out there, and I am subscribed to many. But there is a sticky tar that permeates even when the source is on the fringe. I should unsubscribe from this ugliness. Yet I’m drawn in like a loner watching a tacky soap opera.