Four Shit Splats

I was expected to share some shocking footage of myself recently. I had been captured in natural light, which we all know is the worst kind, up my nose, whilst I scowled and squinted and spoke. Averting my eyes from this betrayal of my face, I caught sight of the Comments. One chap was complaining about my flashy car, shallowness, etcetera. My car? What about my face? I looked at the heap of old junk that had caught his attention outside the window. Obviously, that was not my car. I don’t have a car. But if I did it would be an E-Type Jaguar. And I’d only give interviews on its bonnet.

It's important not to read the Comments, I thought, as I reread all the nice ones, and something about herpes. And it doesn’t matter what I look like. I mean, Christ, even my hair looks bad. But it’s easier to believe these things don’t matter when you look really fit. In the dark. I suppose this is the appeal of surgery. The promise of looking like the same ball of filler from every angle at every time of day. An avatar. “I’m much more attractive in real life,” I resisted writing. No one is interested in real life anyway. There’s a limit to how many people you can physically meet. And limits are out of fashion. So are people. That’s why adult women invest time putting bunny ears on filtered selfies for the love of algorithms.

Oh! There’s no escape. Even if I throw in the hand towel that is my career, I can’t buy peanuts without having to fake a good mood for facial recognition cameras. I could retire to a cave. But what about my comeback? It takes years surviving on crusts and communing with God before a hermit is known to the wider public, and my teeth!

I’m above the Comments. My friend learned how to spell just to destroy strangers on Reddit, but most people don’t have that kind of time, and it shows. Besides, the reality of being a stand up is that the moment you’re good enough for some people to really like you, you’re good enough for others to loathe you without compunction. Yes, ok, I might linger for compliments after a show, but I’ve also had to explain to the drunk that it’s me they’re slagging off to me, and found it made no odds. No, contempt can’t touch me. I never think about it.

I’m moved by the superficial. What happened to Polaroid? When did they change the factory settings? I searched my mind and the internet for anything else I’d done recently. It had to be fairer. I readied to play. But before I could check myself out, I was struck by four shit splats. I warmed myself by emoji fires of roaring approval to contemplate them. Four shit splats. I’d roused my fellow man to throw shit at a virtual wall. I tried to picture creating an account and logging into it to throw imaginary shit. The scene was almost as tragic as googling myself. What a waste of time. I realised I’d dissipated seven whole minutes of precious life on this flaccid attempt at promotion; and apologised to each of them: I don’t deserve to get you back.

And I do look better in real life! Sharing (anything) is caring too much. They can find it themselves!