I remember the last time I went camping. It was one of those days where the angry fusion hateball fired scorching rays that could ignite the Earth, in every direction, followed by so much rain the tents would float and you’d be scrambling together a raft like you lived in a page of Huckleberry Finn. After the downpour subsided there was this two hour in-between phase in the day where everything was still wet-dog soggy but the angry fusion hateball spat hot coals at us and turned the whole damn forest into a sauna. But you know what sticks out the most, more than the violently indecisive weather?

The fucking gnats. My god, the cloud of bugs was so thick you’d be forgiven for thinking the storm was starting again. And for some fucking reason, they keep flying into your ear, that momentary buzz so deeply unsettling it sends a bolt down your spine and moves your body before your brain knows what’s happening, a kamikaze pilot with no regard for its personal safety. You gonna spray DEET in your ear? Hell no. You gonna keep spasming every few seconds because what the hell that noise does not belong in your ear canal BUT IT’S THERE HEY HI HELLO BZZZZZZ.

In that respect, dude who sends me messages, you are not dissimilar. I can’t tell you apart from the last guy who messaged me, I won’t be able to tell you apart from the next guy that messages me, your noise makes me twitch, and you have no. god. damn. idea. how mediocre you are.

“Diversity of opinion”? Are you fucking kidding me? Y’all have nothing new to say! I could literally replace you with a scarecrow with a Twitter thread pinned to it and I wouldn’t notice the difference. I know what you’re going to say next. I know what you’re going to say after that. I know what you said before I had the displeasure of your derivative company, even without checking your timeline. And after you’re done ejaculating your divine insights all over my inbox without any consideration for my boundaries, you’ll go on to the next “uppity bitch” and do it to her too.

And nothing, nothing, you say to her will be new.

You’re not a god. You’re not a genius. You’re not part of something greater. Your opinion, which could go with you to the grave tomorrow and no one would notice, will never move mountains or split seas.

I have never opened one of your messages and thought “oh, wow, you know I haven’t thought about how crazy I am. What a thoughtful thing to say.” You are a third grader drawing dicks in crayon on a paper airplane while pretending that makes you an aviator. Oh, but please Mr. Dick Plane, lecture the actual pilot on how to land a 747 with your “grade six physics.”

You have created nothing except a moment of irritation, something that triggers the instinct of the body to move away, a sickly droning in my ear.

Something that could go away, if only I had enough DEET.