Lives in Cambridgeshire, UK, copy/content writer, self-published 3 books (Amazon KDP), 2 more to follow shortly. Likes: archaeology, history, esoterica & occult studies, mythology, animal welfare, veganism.
Angry reacts only!
'Doomscrolling' - it's a term I only recently heard, yet I instantly knew what it meant. That endless trawl through Twitter, skimming each new nugget of negativity. 'Stranger A' shouts at 'Stranger B', and hordes of other strangers wade in. Celebrities and influencers publicly play out their clashes of personality, ideals, and opinions. It gets very nasty, very quickly. No matter when you open the app, you can guarantee that there will be some vicious fight raging. You can also be sure that bad news will leap out with every twitch of your eager thumb, each story worse than the last; corruption, sleaze, death, inept government officials, natural disaster, and, dare I mention, covid19. So much for Twitter. Let's head to Facebook, that's sure to be a happier place. Actually, no. Here we have the option of several 'emojis' with which to display our reactions to the content on offer. Having scoured Facebook for pages that suit our own personal views, we then spend hours at a time scrolling through our timelines, reacting to posts from those pages as well as from friends and family. Invariably, we see stuff that angers, offends, irks. We stab at the angry face icon. If sufficiently moved by the content, we may even risk leaving a comment, usually bashed out in haste while our blood is still boiling. We then move on, having registered our displeasure, feeling faintly fulfilled at having 'made a difference' somehow. But what, precisely, have we achieved? In most cases, nothing at all.
On my sixteenth birthday, my two elder brothers exchanged sidelong glances as I opened a card from them. Inside I discovered a ticket to see Canadian supergroup, Rush, at the NEC, Birmingham. To say that I was excited is something of an understatement. When the day arrived, I could barely stop shaking with anticipation, much to the amusement of my brothers. Since the very first time I heard The Spirit of Radio, probably their biggest and most famous hit, I fell in love with Rush. Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, and Neil Peart were (and remain) my heroes. My brothers and I bought every album, which I, somehow, inherited later. Instead of doing homework, I would listen to 2112, Moving Pictures, A Farewell To Kings, Hemispheres, and so on, at unhealthy volume through my headphones - a move which I now regret, due to the beginnings on tinnitus that are threatening to blight my hearing and sanity.
So long, Don
Dear Donald, Before the 2016 US elections, I didn't know who you were. Sure, I'd heard your name, and knew there was a Trump Tower. But aside from this, I was blissfully unaware of you. I'm a Brit, you see. Even your cameo in Home Alone2 passed me by until recently. I first realised that something was amiss when I attended a family funeral. A cousin of mine, visiting from the States, said to me of her American husband, "Sorry, Jon, he's a Trump supporter!" and I wondered why she felt the need to apologise. Then I began to hear snippets of news regarding your opinions and proposals as you announced your intention to run for the presidency.