I require no further factoids masquerading as laughter. I have so frequently been seized by an acute, anomalous sensation that my existence feels hollowed out – voided by the incessant demand for instant gratification at the expense of substantive, usable knowledge. I find myself encroaching upon a terminal abyss, spiraling toward non-existence like the last flickers of an ember before it fades into the void.
One need only contrast the progenitors of the past with my own kin to witness the depth of my pain. When I survey the digital relics of the 'boomer' era, such as Everything2, I find a landscape where individuals chronicled the universe with exhaustive sincerity, pouring their very souls into the surprising and the mundane with a great heart. In stark contrast, my contemporaries revel in a performative, shallow existence; they laugh at mere numbers like 67 and 69. There is no humor here, only empty noise. The expectation is not that you laugh at the content, but rather that you are tasked to echo the laughter of others, as if you were an android programmed to exist solely for their validation. All the while, they are blind to the fact that their problems are no easy matter and their laughter is sad. I can say we profound lucidity that their's is a bad habit, and it will eventually die hard as all bad habits do.
The end has already happened, anon. Bury me alive. I want none.