On Boring White People
I was struck by a pessimistic wind today.
Thinking of all the corporations developed by boring white people, and the temperature-controlled malls spawning like fleas across previously wild environs. And how only boring white people seem to make money on these ventures, which they spend on boring white people hairdos and boring white people yachts.
The boring white people control our educational system, and our library shelves are heavy with boring white thoughts. My education was built on their ideas, and my brain is permanently scarred with their searingly boring words.
To distract myself I could have sought out a television show, but there one can only watch boring white male thoughts spoken through the mouths of boringly thin and modified white female bodies.
In this universe one seeks rest by making money, which we do by writing elaborately boring cover letters to compete for space in fathomlessly ugly offices—probably designed and paid for by boring white people, somewhere.
Then I worried that I am becoming a boring white person, who spends hours worrying over what people I don’t even respect think of me. One day I will probably die of a boring white person disease, and be buried under a boring tombstone because it’s unclear if I am properly registered as an organ donor. Or my organs will not even be usable, because they will be riddled with diseases caused by bad air and water—byproducts of white economies which saw the earth as a collection of objects to be traded for cash. Which, among other concerns, is such a terribly boring idea.
I wonder what other people’s bad moods are like.