Generia and the Fortress of Gratitude

Without technology, we are destined for abbreviated brains. As a sworn enemy to anything abbreviated - be they words, sentences, or otherwise - I have hereby given of myself to the giving of nothing and rededicated volumes of cognitive reasoning to a blogspot in lieu of a Moleskine journal whose pages are filled with quadrants instead of lines to write on. Writing on graph paper is a daunting task. Lined - you just follow left. Let your fingers dance. Graphs go everywhere. Your mind makes it so. I begin writing within these goddamn blocks and before you know it I'm wincing and plotting a letter per square and my promising literary output is soon a drawing of a sharp-edged robot mouthing invaluable shapes, like some neo-Web savant commentary on the vagaries of the computer generation, of which I could give a shit. Be computer-savvy, for Christ's sake. Who gives a shit? Hug trees too. Fuck a cloud. Everyone needs a crutch, some of us just limp in for too long.

Speaking of limping in, near dead last in a heat begun in the last years of the 20th Century, it seems I'm beginning the process of becoming consumed by gadgets again. Why can I not shun these natureless leaches? Who knows? How fast do I need shit to be? Just last night, instead of purchasing your standard flip cell phone with a [sic] color screen, polyphonic ringtones and some demo version of solitaire, I spring for the one that flips, talks, emails, AIMs, photographs, reasons, decides, lives and gives birth (eventually it will die, completing the circle, or I will die while using it and neglecting those pesky approaching headlights). If anything's worth doing, it's worth doing right, isn't it Doc? And I suppose the thing is pretty handy. It has a goddamn flashlight. And it will tell me how much I am to tip a waiter/waitress after I receive my bill. I can also surf the "mobile web," which I'm guessing is like drinking Hamm's instead of Blue Moon. There's really no comparable basis for leveling ins and outs of either, but one inevitably owns the other. I haven't tripped down that slippery hole yet.
I can only hope that by embracing the future, and its ridiculous (addictive) buzzers and cogs and lasers and lights, I can finally come to terms (read: block out shameful memories) with my past. It's like a distraught woman eating an entire pint of ice cream. When I get lonely, or bored, or both, I'll turn off the lights, and activate my cell phone's flashlight. Guide me, sweet illuminati! Shield the shadows of adolescence! Make me cool!
I still don't have a MySpace though.