choose yr own ad-venture

it began slowly, as things usually do pre-tentacle-entanglement. a nano-crawl of change wrapping ever so slight, you barely felt the wire…a new wave gone double: the double-you. and then there were 3 (www). but you didn’t know you were knee-deep. not yet.

it inched in by way of its first box, maybe it was Wheaties, Magic on the front, round surprise inside. a ‘trial for hours’, you waited for the tone, a new way to dial-in, or rather, ‘up’.

soon things took a turn, arching into a curve, perhaps in retrospect, a downward spiral. you may know it as: @

it was hot, yahoo! g, yeah, you got mail.

it read something like: gather ‘round you fish of the sea, the net’s cast & though you are on (the) line, there’s so much space….here space, there space, your space, myspace. click, baited, BUT CONNECTED.

you were buried in pages & up to yr face, it was like a friend—this book—an infinite roll of pixels & dead ‘see’ scrolls. time was on the line touting events and memories, parading status. truths were myths and myths were multiplicitous. history was posted & deleted, edited & reposted. TAGGED, YR IT. zuckers.

while you were plotting yr escape with one, the other handle was fingering yet another space in which to play. a place of ‘now’ & instant piquing/peeking. there were many many windows with endless views, & yet, it seemed quieter here. things could be filtered. just a quick visual digest, nothing more, nothing less—yet you pronto-learned it was yet another sprig of containment. you thought perhaps you could enjoy the role of private voyeur in yet another public space, did you? nope. the visual infestation shape-shifted, grew sound, & algorithmic limbs and you now find yrself deep-throating multiverses ad nauseam while gagging on everything you’ve said or done during the week in the form of ads in between.

i’ve contemplated ‘leaving’—what you would say, ‘going offline’, buying a home phone so i can revel in cassette-taped messages on an answering machine. relive my teens prior to these new dark ages. ‘ditch yr cell? you may as well be dead.’ but what’s more dead? that or screaming ‘pancakes pancakes pancakes’ or ‘fleshlight fleshlight fleshlight’ into my cell’s mic for the sole purpose of choosing my own ad-venture out of absolute boredom & feeble attempts at poking holes at the system? i said ‘cell’, didn’t i? yeah. please leave yr message after the tone.

Author: Ranessa Allen

Ranessa is into texture, tetris, smell y memoria. practices palabracadabra to a hybrid degree & suffers from acute aural fixation, non-freudal. girl boys & boy girls are kin. she was named after the Renaissance (rebirth) when her mother's belly met with the hand of a fortune teller who forecast she would give birth to herself, recycled. she thought 'Ranessa' sounded close enough. sentimental, puro pisces. she takes life medium rare.