Stalking is one of my favorite pastimes!

 The feeling of someone's life in your hands--the accumulation of all their accomplishments, education, lovers and experiences compiled on a singular page makes it so easy to pretend to play God. While listening to Sweater Weather x After Dark after it being really dark, Ctrl + clicking link after link renders your eyes unable to peel off of the screen as you hungrily take in year after year. There is no harsh intent; however: 

All I am,

Is a Man,

I want the world,

In my hands.

 There's so many unlived experiences that you cannot take in, but you dwell in the fact that other people have done it already--posing in their cheeky Hawaiian shirts probably an earth away from Hawaii as you stare wide-eyed at their majestic surroundings. 

It's so amazing that we're the products of so many taken chances. I would never have thought that I was lucky (and sometimes I thought that I didn't deserve it) enough to be me, I thought, as I felt the divots on my face with one hand, a tangible reality to get me back on Earth while my other hand scrolled Facebook. 

On the other hand, looking at family women and men with their picture-perfect families posing in front of all the assets that can never truly be in their name (in the name of the U.S.A.!) strikes an irk that I would never want to live out. It's something internal: some feeling dwelling in the very depths of my head: I never want to have mundane problems like the HOA, regular, disgustingly dreadful problems that pester the general population after decades and decades. Assets that will never be your own, screamed my head in warning, it's like you're being stomped by the sole of the same shoe that has been there from when you were little. Your parents would complain about the regulations, and they would still be present as you grow up. 

A massive weight strings upon your foot as the world around you floats higher into the sky, the last glimpses of light blinding as you tumble down with the increasing pressure that is the oligarchy that is forming around you. There is another pair of lungs in your legs, the rope stringing and struggling against your second windpipe, burning flesh as the light fades into what is the blackest of Black Rock. There is no coming out now. You're already dead meat.