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.
-bill kenny
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