The Inner Monologue

Oh, dear reader, how flattered I am by your relentless belief in my supernatural ability to predict the zeitgeist. You stumble upon my latest post—let’s call it “The Fall of Modern Society and Why Avocados Are to Blame”—and you gasp. “How did they know?? This is so relevant to the very specific nonsense that happened yesterday!”

I hate to break it to you, but I didn’t. Know, that is.

This post? Written in 2017. That biting commentary on political turmoil? Drafted during the Bush administration. The scathing take on pop culture’s obsession with nostalgia? Penned while dial-up internet was still a thing. Nothing here is fresh. Nothing is timely. My brain is a warehouse of half-baked thoughts, aging like questionable cheese in the back of your fridge.

But you, brilliant sleuth, have done it! You’ve unearthed the uncanny relevance of my ancient musings. Is it because I’m a visionary? No. It’s because human beings have been making the same mistakes, having the same meltdowns, and recycling the same drama since the invention of the wheel. (And yes, I did write a post about that. In 2004.)

So the next time you think, “Wow, this really speaks to the current socio-political climate!”—congratulations. That’s you doing the heavy lifting. That’s you connecting dots I scribbled absentmindedly while waiting for a pizza to arrive. That’s you projecting your own anxieties onto my backlog of existential word vomit.

As for me? I’ll be over here, dusting off another decade-old draft and pretending I meant to post it right now. Timing is an illusion. Relevance is a construct. And this blog? A glorified time capsule with a comments section.

You’re welcome. Or sorry. Whichever feels more accurate.