That’s right, yeah, I’m talking to you reality; with all your Trump speak, terrorists, shootings, texting while driving, North Koreas, Dennis Rodmans, warts and all. All you all need to slow your shit down and take a breather, you’re messing with my fictional reality.
You’ve taken the comedy out of “Veep” and the drama out of “House Of Cards”. When our current reality is crueler than Frank Underwood, there’s no one to blame but you, reality. Look at me when I’m talking to you. You’ve made my fiction shows impotent. [I don’t watch the show, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s all about, grow up.] You too, reality, grow up.
Reality, you are making me feel guilty about my frivolous tendencies. You make me constantly look over my shoulder wondering too soon? I’ll tell you this: fool me once, shame on me, fool me twice, shame on you, fool me three times, fuck you. Seriously, can’t you see you’re the anti-matter that dissolves matter?
You are altering the genres of art: comic books are historic biographies, emo is sensible, and dramedy is neither drama, nor comedy.
And it’s not just art. Questions are rapidly becoming answers. Sugar tastes like salt, and salt like electricity. Brunch is now broken and crunch.
Reality, you sneaky son of a bitch, you’ve got to stop before you become the fiction surviving generations recite like one of those Aesop’s fables.
And don’t even get me started on how you’re affecting my reruns.
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“You’ve made my fiction shows impotent.” A revelation to end life as we know it.