subtitle: crash box
Life may be like a recyclable plastic bottle of name-brand diet soda, full of carbonation and promise; yet you open it up, and what's inside that yellow lid? "Sorry, you are not a winner."
Gee, thanks.
I think I made a mistake.
Life is not all that bad. Sometimes, all of a sudden, you unscrew that bad boy's lid and you get something miraculous: gobbledygook.
A code. Something to give a little white typing box on the soda manufacturer's website some significance.
I love codes.
Codes make you feel special, included, knowledgeable. Or despised and isolated.
Codes twist communication.
You can crack codes. I want to crack things sometimes.
Codes can grant meaning or take it away.
Codes represent everything I like about the American dream.
You don't have to prove yourself with a code; you just have to hide.
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2 comments:
Yeah, well. I like to listen to those eerie "Numbers Stations" on my cheap shortwave radio that I got from Wallgreens.
There's nothing stranger in the morning then listening to a female voice say random numbers in Spanish.
Some people even believe it could be Cuban spies or drug dealers communicating to each other.
Creepy, huh!
Thats weird.
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