Barbara H. Peterson
I get up each morning and get dressed just like the rest of you. Brush my hair, put on my shoes one at a time, look in the mirror to see that I am presentable, then go out into the workforce unnoticed for what I am. But when it comes down to getting you what you need, I’m your connection.
You call me when you need a fix. When you’ve run out of what keeps you going. When you are so frustrated because you cannot get what you need that you’ve reached your last drop of endurance and you scream for relief. You know that I will be there with your supply. And so you call. I am ready to fill your needs. To up the dose and get you on your way.
I lure you in with fancy offers of gratification. Promises of happiness and fulfillment. Illusions. A trick to get you hooked. And you take the bait. And once you are hooked, I’ve got you for life. The perfect customer. I don’t need to worry about if you will be back. I know you will. It’s only a matter of time. And the time grows shorter in between fixes.
When you call, you are upset. You need your fix. I calm your fears by providing the cure for what is ailing you. I feed your addiction like a benevolent caretaker. I soothe and assure you that all will be well and that I will continue to give you what you want. What you need. I am there for you in your darkest hours to relieve the pain. You become dependent on me. You pay for your product and when it is not enough, you pay more. You forego other necessities just so you can get your fix. And I smile and go on to the next customer. I am no longer concerned about you until you call again. And you will. (html comment removed: more)
And you don’t know that you are addicted. That’s the beauty of it. Just the mention of the word “addiction” makes you angry and throws you into a state of complete denial. You equate your habit with eating, breathing, and drinking. It’s that important. A part of your everyday existence. Something that you cannot do without. So each day I go to work pushing an addiction onto an already compromised client. A client who pays well for my services. The demands for more, more, more echo all around me and nothing is ever enough. Not for the addicted. And the time grows shorter in between fixes. We are a nation of addicts.
But it was not always this way. This addiction was a carefully thought out plan to make the high-level pushers rich beyond measure. Not the intermediate ones like me. I get by gleaning the scraps falling from the table of the ones who supply me with the product to push. I’m just a low-level grunt. I’m there so that the addiction can keep growing and the money can keep rolling in. I am replaceable like the next BIC lighter. When I am worn out from the onslaught of addicts demanding their fix, another is ready and willing to take my place. Most of those around me who do the same thing have become addicts too. Dependent on the very thing that they push. It’s that addicting.
You might think that I am an illicit drug pusher, but I’m not. What I do is legal. Acceptable. Perfectly normal. Almost every American has my product. And it is there for the children too. In fact, most of my product is geared towards children. To get them addicted from the start so that I have a lifetime customer. You know who I am. You know what the product is. You just don’t want to admit it. You would rather stay in denial and consume my product while pushing it onto your children day in and day out. This is an uncomfortable truth, but the truth none-the-less.
Do I need to spell it out? Okay, I will. Not that it will make a difference. You see, it’s gotten that blatant. The marketing campaign and subliminal programming have worked to perfection. I no longer have to work in the shadows, but have gone completely mainstream and ‘in your face.’ My product is accepted by a nation of addicts who have been raised on it. Who wouldn’t be without it. You are probably looking at it right now and don’t even realize what it truly is.
I am your friendly media programming specialist.
You don’t own the TV. The TV owns you.
©2016 Barbara H. Peterson