I’m figuring despite my appalling lack of understanding of technology that I am no more than three (more) apps on my smartphone away from no longer needing to converse with anyone outside my family at all.
That, on a planet with a skosh over 7.2 billion (with a B) people I could have my own private Idaho is, pardon the lack of modesty, pretty cool, even if I do say so myself (especially if I do that).
And now, based on an article in Friday’s Christian Science Monitor, for those tired of living the dream, come and join me in Nowhere Land. I am less than ‘meh!’ on the name and think something a little more Nat King Coleish, better reflecting the whole deceit and duplicity ambiguity might have been more fitting, but who am I quibble.
As someone who had an imaginary friend, Marty (from the Triple R Ranch) growing up (technically until I was 53 but keep that to yourself) I’m wondering in terms of the scale and scope of the masquerade if it’s considered appropriate to go on invisible vacations to invisible exotic destinations with one’s invisible (girl/boy) friend. No need to worry about the weather and getting that invisible tan since there’s got to be an invisible sun.
And when, as it must, the relationship comes to an end, you’ll have a wan smile as you tap the app tiles on your smartphone display and they seem to quake in fear until you consign your pixelated simulation icon to the virtual dustbin.
Even as the memory fades faster than that taste on your lips of someone you’ve just kissed while surrounded by the girls that don’t exist.