The grid, the social matrix that is woven by the beehive hum of digital empires that are building the tapesty of media through which we perceive life - it never even lets go for even that brief instant when you fool yourself into believing you a breaking out of it and responding sincerely to the departure of a loved one - but even then, you are in the throes of some grotesque marionettes dance of artifice in which you are an actor playing the scripted role of a grief dance that you've seen on a thousand soap operas.
She is self-consciously, with great contrivance, going through the ministrations of grieving. With great contrivance, acting out her own little grief dance, grappling for the spotlight, Warhol's promise of 15 minutes, and everyone is clamouring for it with their greedy little claws - at every wedding and birth and funeral. I remember this kid who died at our highschool. A football star, but still a kid who loved animals, always had time for everyone, never stopped smiling. And there it is again. All the cheerleaders competing to outdemonstrativelygrieve one another. To endure all of these charlatans - these cheerleaders who never really knew the warmth and humanity that that boy had in his 18 years of life on the planet - he was a warm individual - even I liked him - and we all had to endure the grotesque spectacle of every cheerleader participating in the contest to outgrieve the others - brownie points if you ever made out with or fucked him - that lends some badge of authenticity to your emotional distress.
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