This photo is a metaphor; it symbolizes everything about my life, about her life, about your life, about someone you don’t even know’s life who doesn’t have at least 2500 friends on the most relevant social networking platform. I’m not only projecting upon this pretty young thing, I’m digging deep inside myself…
Tonight, I lost my phone. It’s the most important thing in my entire life. It’s the iPhone/Crackberry/5-way slider/flip/walkie-talkie. Losing this item will make me shed more tears than even losing grandma, genocide, and my 13yr. old sister’s abortion all combined into one. This will eventually send me on a downward spiral and I’ll think irrationally about the situation, and I will begin to ask questions like:
Who am I? Where am I going in life? Where am I going later tonight?
Will I eat 4th meal at Taco Bell?
Why did I give my cell # to the bartender?
Has he ever had a cell # (in state prison)?
Would real friends leave me out here with the homeless people?
What are all those black spots on the sidewalk from?
I wonder how I should pose if an authentic hipster photographer comes along? Do I smile or appear ironic? What does ‘ironic’ mean?
Should I get a pink rubber latex sleeve for my iPhone?
Should I wear high-waisted shorts with an oversized belt instead of a pregnancy tank top?
I wonder if I’m in someone’s “Fav 5”?
Does anyone use *69 anymore?
Do I have any rollover minutes?
There are so many questions tonight…I just need to figure out what I am supposed to do in life. Quite possibly I’m in dire need of career aspirations or maybe I can just post a status update and people will tell me what I should be. I’m just so angry; feel like I could fight anyone right now; might become the first female bouncer in the history of blue belt karate class graduates whose dojo is located in the local strip mall.
No, screw that. I’m going to community college. I’m going to better myself and contribute to society. I’m going to get a degree in Music Theory, and become a real electronic/house/dub-step DJ. I will become famous. My professor works at the record store on weekends, but I will fail to realize that this is an indicator of the job market and chance of becoming a famous DJ is slimmer than being 5’3 and getting signed to the LA Lakers.
After graduating with a degree in Music Theory and becoming a professional DJ, life will come full circle; life will momentarily make sense. And then when I realize the futility, I will saunter across the street to Papa John’s Pizza and beg for remorse, plead with them to open the doors at 2:03 am because I’m in desperate need of a slice of pepperoni. I will do this, because by the time I graduate in 1.5 years with a meaningless piece of paper/Associate’s Degree, electro will be dead. I’ll eat to cope with pain and then do lines of blow to counteract the weight gain. It’s a vicious cycle, but I obviously could give a shit because I lost my phone tonight. It wasn’t possible to lose your phone 10 years ago, because the majority of phones used to be connected [via cables] to the fucking wall.
I will fail to realize being a DJ isn’t a viable career option because live synthesized vocals are the new fad, and I don’t have a sliver of musical talent besides hooting on a recorder once in 3rd grade. My iPhone had my entire music library on it, and now I feel lost; cast out into a cruel world if you will. I lost my phone and my ability to have a conversation with my friends back inside the club. It’s okay though, no one will listen to me anyways because in the grand scheme of things, I never had a voice. Might start a blog and reach out to others like myself, or just comment on someone else’s blog to have a voice through them because I have big aspirations, but lack initiative to realize my goals. I identify with this writer; he seems to make sense; he represents me. Maybe we’ll start a Facebook group together about an intangible object like “Hugs” and find common ground with others all over the world.
My self-esteem will rise in direct correlation to an increase in fans/group members. I keep telling myself I’ll be okay; it’s not the right time to step in front of a city bus. I just need some friends/pepperoni pizza/cocaine because tonight, I lost my phone. “Send me your numbers.”
Actually I decided I’m only wearing body mesh suits now. They deceive the viewer to what is really underneath. Skin blemishes, bruises, and cuts are all covered up. I’m not this pale in real life, but the black micro mesh gives me a darker skin appearance, kinda like going tanning on a budget. It’s an optical illusion; very similar to shopping for bulk fruit and buying a dozen oranges bagged with the orange mesh only to discover that 11 of them are rotten.
In fact, I love Me so much, that I will do anything to make myself look sexier/hotter/hipster-er-er. I will even fulfill my lifelong model aspirations in an alleyway while there are homeless women trying to collect cans to pay for baby food/hotel room/meth/sharpie markers for their cardboard signs. 
Been wondering where this generation of self-entitlement is headed… Let’s be honest, I was only worrying about Me. Now you can broadcast your every thought to the world; and even when you think you’re completely and utterly alone, don’t off yourself just yet. There’s surely some lonely man living in a rural Montana shack who understands you. 
He’s probably on various social networking sites and knows you’re kinda famous; he holds you up on a pedestal (or at least beats off to these photos while they are scotch-taped above his computer desk.) His name is probably Leopold, Horace, or the Unabomber. It sounds like this one man who emailed me and “Fully supports my feet photography and wants to fund my efforts for his private collection.” I don’t love my boyfriend/dog/parents/religious figure anymore. I don’t even love LA, NY, or that touristy t-shirt I bought. I don’t love you; I love Me.