Imagine. It’s 2020. You wake up for your 18th birthday. You are not someone who enjoys birthdays. You never enjoyed birthdays, especially not your own birthdays. Grumpy and sullen you drag your feet to the kitchen where your mother greets you with a weird excitement in her eyes. It’s nice to see that, but sadly it never means anything good.

Your parents sit you down with the laptop on the table. “We have something to show you …” “My god, I hope it’s not a video of my birth uploaded to YouTube.” Instead your parents show you YOUR blog. A blog documenting your life from the two weeks before your birth, your mother all poor sitting on the couch not being able to move around like she would want to, till this week, when your father updated it with his thoughts on the event that is just taking place.

“We are going to tell him about the blog on his birthday. I think it will be the best gift a child at 18 can receive.”

It is a nice idea, no doubt about it, but consider this. The blog. Your blog. Your life in html tags is the most boring piece of shit you’ve ever read. Your whole existence reduced to a couple of ASCII encodings putting toghether the most boring story ever told. It’s shit, worse than shit. It’s a story you’d wrap your dog’s shit in if you got it for a present. It is written in Courier, the font you’ve despised since that pop-quiz in 2nd grade. #08e7f5 is the colour your Mom chose for the background. “I thought it fits your personality well.” This is far worse than every gift you’ve ever received. Not only your doubts about your uneventful life became true, they are well documented. They are saved in the binary landscapes of the multimedia landfill funkadrome for everyone to read. But no one comments. No wonder. I don’t know anyone who would comment and I am really proud of this notion. Thank god no one commented. What would they comment? Who comments something as insignificant as a drop in the ocean which doesn’t even produce a wave strong enough to distort the image of yourself staring back at you. This is it. 0 and 1, if not even more dull. You could at least have a disease, something growing out of your nostril and no one to explain what it is. Something, anything… they could have walked in on you when you were touching yourself, but they didn’t.

The most depressing part is, you’ve known this already. And the fact that you know it now for sure doesn’t change a thing. You’ll go through diets, 10-step programmes, yoga and books about self-improvement. You’ll never change. This is your story. As boring as #FFFFFF. As boring as whatever happens to Britney these days. As boring as a new-age furniture shop. As boring and bored as the face staring back at you.