The Shambolic Mind - Entry 1

Maybe it’s the information that’s getting to me. Certainly there’s way too much of it. The information is even coming at me from everyday appliances—my overused toaster is telling me things I’d rather not know about my eating habits, my vacuous fridge is a constant rebuke to bachelor life. Its creaking door and cavernous echo is like a one-two punch joke told over and over by an aging comedian. When I walk outside, the city air brings yet more information. It carries the fallout of science right to my nose, the bouquets of pollutants generated by chemical reactions in nearby industrial valleys. What is a man supposed to do when he wants to just turn off? The modern citizen is either defeated by the information, or must learn to surf it. He must bob on the tide of bulletins, news briefs, memos, mission statements, apocalyptic warnings, dictator declarations, friendly advice, constructive and deconstructive criticism, late night sports scores, market analyses, spurious spam, monsoon warnings, the telltale headaches and abdominal pains, the little voice in his head cheering for his ruin, and the other more fulsome voice, telling him anything is possible, telling him to haul his little load of misery to the trash like a grownup.

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