Will you have a piece of sex again?

You know, sometimes I wake up from bed in the morning and see everything shake. Like a sizzling screen. Bzitt, I'm flickering.

Nothing to do with a paranormal phenomenon, just a blood pressure thing. That's the way it is. I leap from the stake plumbly and hear something like "Here the voice, it's going to be all black!. Shut the fuck up.

See, as I'm talking to you right now, I'm having this disturbed feeling of water. It makes me sail my stomach to sea sickness. Finally, way of speaking, my only maritime experience being an old pedal boat ride on Palavas les Flots. Still, it's all stirred up. The walls, the window, the bed; even that girl in front of me whose body is excited by excessive gesticulations. And here I am, behind me, doing my comings and goings while the voice encourages me to "Break it down, get high, ride it. Here, come on, get your eyes up. You see the finish line in the back?" Of course, of course. I accelerate ragingly according to the jerky flow in preparation for the final sprint. Except I'm just as good with my zob as I am with a pen, and God knows it's been a long time since I stopped writing. No matter what, pleasure will not escape me. That's impossible. I'm like a hurricane, a breath, a breeze, a fart. So don't hang around, just bend everything. And you'll be fine. Promise sworn. I'm a champion. I'll keep repeating myself for as long as it takes, champ!

That was nice, wasn't it?
My crotch is a vagina, not an apple pie or a spade hole, you must have been mistaken.
I've always had trouble distinguishing orgasm from epilepsy. No hard feelings, it's the cruelty of competition: if there is a winner, there is a loser. And then I don't give a shit, I set the instant.

Deep down, who wins?
You're going to tell me,"Where's your romanticism? Your blue flower side oozing from the eyes when you came across little Clemency of the 6th E?" To the toilet. I flushed the toilet when I saw the limitless offer that was open to me. In this era of virtual window shopping, I had Stan Smith delivered to me before adopting my girlfriend on a catalog of filtered photos. With a finger sweep, I geo-locate it, the match and fill the cart. I'm this predator of a convenience store in front of the fresh food stalls.

Everything is bought here, because everything sells. The product is you. Be calibrated. Put yourself on the stage. Good news, you're outdated at the top of the list. Attention, the promotion is limited. Everything is perishable, you, me and the yogurt. And yeah, old lady, welcome to overconsumption.

I smoke my relationships like I burn my cigarettes. I pull a few taffes and trample the butt before a hungry man throws himself on it, praying to the lord to let him have a last latte to toss. One last shot to shoot. That way you don't look like nothing. Because we are hungry dead, on the lookout for the slightest little blue pill that will make us stiffen it for the next 50 years. Just to feel something, almost nothing, just once. One more time, again.

I warn you, the days of rose petals and handwritten letters are over, this is the chapter of new generation love. The one who quantifies himself in Big Data. You can see, my girlfriend, she loves me in all shapes and forms, especially in emotional cones. I throw feverish words at him on the twtittosphere in 280 characters. In an uncontrolled impulse, I sometimes take my eyes off the screen, sitting on the opposite armchair, I guess. I'm just guessing. She was dreaming of the Prince Charming, I was dreaming of something real, we ended up faking everything to forget that we had gotten lost. Satellites didn't just blow up the seasons, they parasitized our relationships. Bzitt.

My news feed is a reality show; a kind of "Père Castor, tell me a story" uncensored version. You and me, in all this, what happens to us? The extras of a fiction that are assembled and dismantled at the whim of subscribers.

You see, at first, I was embarrassed, ashamed limit to throwing the show on your wall. Very quickly, I got used to it. Today, part of my human experience is through the screen, it has become obsessive. Virtuality becomes reality. Or the other way around.

I worked on my acting. I scream loudly. Too hard. Like I'm playing.
Whatever, what's visible is considered real, it's displayed or not. I mean, little things, moments of sharing, it doesn't matter, I get rid of them. She is overwhelmed by the great idea that modesty is a big hit at the Box-office. My idyll, I tag it and annotate it down to the tiniest libidinous detail; I tell it more than I enjoy it.

In fact, when I see my shattered face in the mirror, the eyes surrounded, the features drawn, I wonder; I think to myself that upstairs, he didn't do his job; that he could have taken out his toolbox and made me something softer. I have the impression that I am witnessing a degeneration of the feeling that a genetic anomaly is lobotomizing its heritage. Like this, without warning. And if we let him disintegrate, if we let him die, don't you think we'll have regrets?

In fact, it all started from a trivial piece of information, which isn't so trivial. In an instant, it all went down. One morning, on TV, on the airwaves and on paper, the High Secretariat of Time threw us with a grave air "I run fast. Too fast. Don't lose me! ». He was right, I don't have the stamina; one night, I did the smart thing, I wanted to test, I let him go in front of me, the breath was cut, I saw myself slamming. So I decided not to risk myself, I did everything right, I settled like a parade on July 14th. Let's move forward. I connected to your USB port, to the rest of the world. I analyzed my data and automated the daily routine.

In my own world, a mediocre life is not allowed. The most important thing is performance. We even worshipped it. In order to avoid the sideways, I conformed. On the net, I bought a fortune to take part in the latest all-inclusive training course "Being Super-Productive or not being". I've certified everything. What pride. At work, in the subway, hand in hand and in my stake, I became a machine. Like a guignol at the school fair, I articulate and dissociate myself under guardianship. In fact, there are many of us in this case. So much so that today we could raise an army of humanoids.

What's the point of making robots if you tend to be robots? I don't know, I wonder.

They called it the standardization of cyborgs, a kind of global phenomenon that homogenizes our lives, so that as individuals we become insignificant. Villani said that it was a series of algorithms that complement each other in a chronophageal movement and that at the slightest false movement, the whole matrix intertwined. We then standardise and continue the process' in accordance with this inflexible manual. You can see, last year I poured a concrete screed over the unexpected to smother the slightest chance. Since then, he's been endangered. And I'm a pain in the ass; because in the long run, it's just a matter of chance.

By striving to computerize, perform and calibrate each of my parameters, I have come to reconceptualize love and feelings. I've made them pay for themselves to the tune of every penny. The risk is to become uncompromising. To the first bug, to the first dissatisfaction, I send the file in the trashcan and move on to the next one. Next. Fortunately, there is a choice. We are millions of profiles that stand out for everything and anything. A multitude that facilitates our chances in this era of subscription without commitment. I have the impression that this consumer-like attitude is based on an illusion, which currently prevails: that of being oneself, of remaining oneself, of adding the other to one's life, but without being disturbed by it.

We've been transformed into interchangeable studs from one nook to the other.
I'm not gonna lie to you, I've been picking up some signals. A few years ago, when my mother expelled me a few years ago, the health care staff shouted "Glory to the penis! ». My licorice stick had received the sacred fire, a mystical power that has nothing to envy the elder's wand of Harry Potter's other badger." Amplificatum! that they threw at me. A magic spell and attribute erected itself as a totem that they worshipped. Like a king walking towards the dawn, I thought I had been given a lighthouse to which sailors refer. Except some feminists ran up on me and yelled at me,"Death to the penis!" So then I didn't understand anything, that such a small thing would grow so big, and I said to myself,"This is a world out of place." . And naive as I am, I let myself get caught up in their delusions. Today, I'm looking to dock.