October 01, 2008

Outsourcing My Personal Existence

Amidst the breathless chatter in recent weeks about banks failing, markets melting, and capitalism ending (¡Viva la revolución!), a vastly more important story has been relegated to consummately irrelevant blogs such as this one: my own life is falling apart. And while long-time readers may be excused for pondering what makes this news of any import whatsoever, considering, first, that I lead a largely marginalized and trivial existence, and second, that my life is always in some state of catastrophic collapse given its necessary futility, the unprecedented levels of anxiety, self-doubt, and despair that have consumed me in past month nonetheless convince me that something out of the ordinary is afoot.

I am sleeping little, accomplishing less, and ending each day further behind than I started it. To speak in terms of a particularly vivid (and thoroughly disgusting) analogy from years past, the levels of shit in my clear box are increasing much faster than I can shovel them out. This acceleration is, of course, unsustainable in the long term. And while the ultimate solution remains an option (as it must), I am not persuaded that the tragicomedy of the situation has reached levels such that facilitating my own demise would yield maximum irony. Something, however, must be done. Last year I spoke of outsourcing my digital existence. Today I propose something far more drastic.