DODGE DEATH BY DATA

GDPR. What’s your tally? I’m on my 67th this week. As I write, another ping, another fucking supercilious, sanctimonious email trying like desperate fuck to be my fucking friend, preying on my weakest moment of distraction to keel over and resubscribe.

Privacy has never been so invasive.

Here’s the truth (come closer you can’t hear from over there) WE ARE NOT FRIENDS. NOT THEN. NOT NOW. NOT EVER.

Why have you left it this late to be funny, profound, apologetic, respectful, irreverent? You’ve dumped your ill-thought landfill on me for years, and now, just as we’re about to call it day, you get down on your scabby knees and beg for me to stay. Yes, I’m an idiot. Dense as double-weave-concrete. Should’ve bailed yonks ago and not turned this week into a communication ultimatum that piles on the guilt like a cultural equivalent of tax deadline day.

Somewhere, in between the javelins of small talk, I’ve shimmied left and right, evading the barbed triple hooks that hide beneath your kiss-and-make-up missive. This shedding of mail is akin to a snake shedding its skin. It should be annual thing. A way for us all to live lighter lives. For correspondence to come and go, as we do with our lives. To accept that routine, like marriage, is slow motion murder.

So,,, delete, drop, dump.

If you suffer intolerable withdrawal symptoms, your body will tell you.

Chances are, it’ll tell your something else, something it hasn’t told you in a while, something you need to hear. That it loves you. That it hates mental digital pollution more than you drinking bleach. That your soul can stop holding its breath. That your whole being can stop going AWOL and muster in the same gelatinous body as the human electricity that has been struggling with power cuts.

Thank fuck you don’t subscribe to thisness.

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