It begins...

It was a stressful day. Arguments that a tired brain doesnt need, about futilities best left unnamed. The impotent rage that a short while ago promised I would try to keep in check, rose again, like so much tepid bile in my throat. And I ask myself, a spectator in a corner of my mind: why bother. Yes, why bother, about all those 40 hours weeks I give to soulless entities, watching me with empty fish eyes, breathing my air, tearing my mind. Why bother about the fact that it's the third day of suffocating heat, in a country that used to be so cold few years back. Why bother about all those damned idiots driving around to celebrate some fu**ing meaningless sport-team-athlete related event. Why bother that I can tell the news I surf through are all trying their best to lie, and quite badly. Why bother that recently, the government owned network cut back on news and education, to provide instead endless hours of harmless talk show-stars enjoying themselves hey lets join in the fun by fu**ing proxy.
And you know, it's oh so easy to blame governments and the medias that fellate them, but what about the fat slobby majority? The endless supply of cretins you see all the time in the grocery store stocking on all those 'on sale' items, because it's such a damning bargain. The bottom feeders in a cesspool of a society that keeps getting shallower, the honking morons, the 'I'll buy that for a dollar' crowd, the useless wandering stomachs that can't wait to fill on the latest offering at subway, because Jared told them it was the way to a healthy bony physique. The herd of stupefied mothers who dress their daughters like prostitutes, because if they don't look like hookers by the time they're 12, they might be impopular; their unsightly fathers who beat the crap out of their sons if they should lose that precious sport-related event, because it's all they got left to masturbate to when they think about the wreck that is their existence.
...
So there I was, sitting in front of a computer, enjoying the company's air conditioning, trying to focus on the conversation about my next assignment, but you know, sometimes you got to shrug it away, because you can. Because you want to live to be at least 60, because there's a remote chance in the next 30 years that a near earth object might just collide with our preocuppied little planet, and wipe us all away in the silence of space. And I want to be there to see it, to hear the whimpers of comprehension, to see the faces of those news anchors when they have to announce that the growing glowing spot in the sky might just be what humanity needed to shut their gorging maws for a moment, and ponder on their filthy waste of oxygen those past decades. We live longer, but we accomplish n-o-t-h-i-n-g with the excess time. I get a tear in my eyes whenever I realize that elders can copulate at 80 now, what an age to live in. Maybe that was god's plan all along, give senile old men erections, so we can all I don't know, hang something.
...
I work in a software company; it produces games, for all those repressed teenagers who need some ego boosting. I'm a concept artist, so I draw characters whom the buyers can identify with. Ge-ne-ric heroes, to please marketing demands- well built, hairless metrosexuals. And the women they love, with head-sized breasts, just like in real-life. And I sit on a chair, and I try to escape in my mind. And I see laughing people, in slow motion, laughing and talking about buying more stuff, cars and houses, buying your way to a facade of humanity. Like a parasitic disease, we in the entertainment business have latched on the rotting corpse of western society, and offered so much in way of destroying what's left of brains that can't absorb information at a proper rate. So here's to all consumers all there, I hope you can rise again, and be humans, and reject the materialistic doctrine that's been force fed to you from birth. I might lose a job, but I'm sure I'll make a friend, and we can sit and dream together, waiting for the meteor.