T. J. Ward
7 Ways To Ensure I Regret Clicking: A Meta Rant
Clickbait is one of my guilty pleasures. It takes a big person to admit that, and I am that big person. I consider myself reasonably sophisticated and blah blah blah, but even I, an intellectual, occasionally enjoy the noncommittal, mindless indulgence offered by an article that conveniently compiles a bunch of entertaining screenshots for my effortless consumption. Hell yeah, I wanna see 32 texts sent to the wrong person or 14 times Karens made a scene or 23 and a half memes that everyone with an idiot boss can relate to, because one is good, but more is better. But I have limits to how much I’ll tolerate from a website, and if your goal is to get clicks from me, here’s everything you’re doing wrong:
April 10, 2238 This is going to be my first entry. I just turned 18 today and received this notebook as a birthday gift. Not that I’m ungrateful, but the older you get around here, the lamer the gifts get. What am I supposed to do with this thing? Write about my super exciting life here in the bunker? Well I’ve got news for mom and dad. I already spoke to the head supervisor, and he said since I’m 18 now I’m old enough to leave if I really want to. And I’m leaving tomorrow.
Nothing But Flowers
The last days were a shameful, self-inflicted pandemonium. People were getting poorer, the world was getting hotter, and everyone was at each other’s throats. Even though I was only a kid at the time, I could still see through all the bullshit. People scraped the bottom of the barrel to find reasons to blame anyone else for their problems but the mega corporations that were actually at fault for putting profits over people and destroying our ozone or the political leaders that kept them unregulated and their pockets lined.
I’ll never forget the tears that were in her jewel blue eyes, how they were already there before I placed the heart-shaped locket in her hand and she closed her fist around it. She had hired me to bring her daughter back, but this is what I returned with instead. I recognized that sandpaper-gut sorrow she was exuding, having been there once, too, and I hesitated to tell her…