Worry

by Alexandra Tanner

I can see the end of art and culture and sometimes even human life if I’ve been scrolling through the right pages for long enough.

why is it, I think, while getting stoned out of my mind off Poppy’s shitty vape pen, that in this life, in our simulation, in whatever terrifying meaningless thing it is we’re all doing every day, we can only create infinite and infinitely worse versions of the things we already have instead of good new things we need?

I just wanted an excuse to feel like the way I looked at the Internet was different than the way everyone else looked at the Internet; like the way I wasted my time was special. There’s never been a reality in which I could be a serious thinker, a serious writer. I’m a Floridian. I’m a consumer. I’ll never blossom into the woman of ideas I like to imagine myself as late at night. It’s not that art is dead. It’s just that I’m not going to be one of the ones who makes it.