the reason we write is cause the devil can't read
tesla roadster. not a classic car. too heavy and gimmicky to be desired. too cartoonish. why does elon only use son x to garner attention towards HIS paternalism? the garish audacity of white south african entitlement baffles.
"made on earth by humans", is printed on the vehicle instead of china or usa. it could say america made, after all, we're still the new world, established through the church of christianity, by families of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, cousins all. we're still the first nation to declare independence from the British crown. meanwhile the boers have inbred so severely that some of them truly believe all of africa should be theirs and the blacks can remain, as slaves. they truly believe in the prodigal son, that he will master a race of robots.
in turn, i was born the year before elon, in honduras. i have 3k+ "friends" on the app that everyone makes fun of, but it's the app that houses the app preferences of more consistent subscribers, no, information miners, than all the other apps combined. so essentially twitter is just as small an echo chamber as facebook.
as a peripheral citizen of nowhere, unlike musk, i don't measure my existence in likes or money. commodification of boundless emotion that as hard as he groks, the machines he wants us to refer to as "intelligent" can never feel. the socials have become the ultimate play ground, in virtual land anyone with enough followers can create content that mimics true success.
meanwhile, i'm outback, on the hill, shoveling and shaping terraces for future gardening, feeling the golden morning sunlight streaming through the trees, the sharp gravel and soft dust under my feet, the occasional poke of a reluctant cane shooting through. i'm outside, there, in the lightness of my body shaving chunks of anthill and chopping remnants of tall shoots and vines. the force of these arms, legs and back, the balance in push and pull, delicate strikes of a blade to the earth making vertical surface flat. there is no robot, ever, in the entire universe that can summon a demon. not as long as i'm breathing.
social media made us "friends". real friendships didn't survive 9112001. when the phones came into production, the gadget garnered the avatars of the people who had loved before, a simulation of a good time, of a sidewalk, of a small town, of a bonfire.
baby x is forming extreme attachment behaviors, children aren't designed to adorn their parent in public. every demon that has ever attacked elon attaches to his progeny. minime. made on earth, the car says, while it circles overhead. starlinking.
my dad used to drag me to bars so he could play gigs. cause he couldn't afford a sitter. to be fair, they were day open mike events, hardly the drag venues that concurred after sundown, yet while he sang his medley of folk covers, i could sense the preceding night's disco themed afterparty, the dolls new york. i too was blond and pale, but unlike x, i had God's top angels standing between my innocence and the city's depravity. soho darts was dingy and smelly, and sad.
elon's kid seems like prince william's eldest kid, well aware that father will be king. x however, is not the eldest nor the baby among the musk offspring. claire boucher, mother, canadian, musician known as grimes is a kate, fake and overproduced, complicated. but to be fair, we’re all quirky online.
