Internet.

I'm sick
of the internet.

The high-speed
wiring.

Misplacing scarcasam.
Mistaking emotion.

"Hyper-communication"
broken down
to its simplest...
its easiest.

It's easiest
to let it
become your crutch.
To let it
consume
you,
instead of
vise versa...

Or, whatever.

"It's just cleaver marketing."
"It's just kids."
"It helps me connect."
"I stay in contact."

The internet is still inutero and here we are, trying to let it lead us.
Let it feed us. Let it do the meeting for us. Glorious. Gory. Messy.

Clean up... optional I suppose.

It's just social networking working for the greater good. Helping me and Mom keep in touch.
So when we go to breakfast next Sunday, we sit in silence, because she's read my statuses all week long.
"Did I tell you about ______"
"Yeah I read that."
"Oh."
"Tell me more about it."
"Well, that's it, really."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Um, what else is new?"

Hard to say in person.
Much easier to slowly type. Re-type.
Spell check.
Fact check.
And re-type again...
Making sure it is witty, as well as insightful.
Creative.
Original.
Funny.

Epic.

Because you've had 5 minutes to plan these 140 characters, so it's perfect.

And you have the rest of your life to build up your friend list.

And be hyper-connected to everyone you've ever met, and a lot of people you've never met.

And you go out just to take pictures to post to your blog... or to check in on 4 square.
Ignore your real life.
And while you're out, you check your Facebook.
Post a status.
Read a message.
Then send a text.
Ignore real life.
Check how many calories are in your drink.
Get lost on Wikipedia trying to find the info.
Ignore your life.
Google yourself. Check your friends blog.
Digi-stalk that guy from the coffee shop you met once.
Ignore the waitress.

Oh, internet.
How did we ever survive with out you?


And, by the way, check out my band's website when you get a chance.
Or any of my electronically published poems.

Or this blog.


Or my Facebook.