Every day I get these cravings. I hoard the things I think I need: peanut butter, seltzer water, coffee—every minute, around the clock, my needs are serviced. Going without is not an option. Even a ten-minute delay sours my mood. Being fulfilled is something that I never get sick of. The beat of my metronome depends on the perfect deliverance of commodities. Hedonism sucks the life out of any alternative reality, allowing me to only see what the next item to obtain or food to gargle down is.
I rarely think about others. I am much too busy thinking about what I “deserve.” The television accompanies me through my day—a day, yes, I claim to be mine and mine alone. The mindless chatter encases me in a wall of familiarity and, so long as another beat is coming, I can relax back into my chair. I earnestly stare at the screen, actively looking for ways it can entertain me. I seek to extract everything I can get from it. It is a circus of entertainment: a delight for the eyes, a stimulant for the ears, and a scratch for the brain.
My eyes aren’t taken away even during advertisements I have seen a thousand times. The ads “tickle me”; I get a kick out of them, even some laughter. I find myself unable to comment on them in my head—that is exactly where they want you to be.
When football comes on, I am greeted by the familiar noises: the crowd erupting in applause, sports announcers screaming into microphones, referees blowing their whistles, and an out-of-tune marching band rehashing the old classics in an attempt to elicit camaraderie—and it works. My emotions get completely engrossed. I find them rising and falling depending upon which team scores a point, in unison with the crowds.
I am consumed by this cycle. I live by it. I breathe it. I eat it. I am it. I spend time reacting to everything that is advertised to me, and on every platform. I respond to all the current social media trends. My life is a perfectly curated hedonistic echo chamber where only the most unoriginal and prominent thoughts can be heard. What makes me different and special is merely my likes and dislikes. I possess no true personality outside of my relation to material things, specifically the extent to which they give me pain or pleasure. That is all I am at the end of the day: a predictable machine. The advertisers have already seen to it that I get the things I need. They are the masters at knowing what that is.
In some ways, I am no different than a farm animal, always squirming to be fed hay and fleeing whenever I need a shot. I make a mess out of myself, my ability to have dignity, and my restraint. I can’t imagine limitations because I ordinarily can eat whatever I feel like and at any time. I do not even have to think about it. As soon as a palm is opened—I munch. That is what I do—munch. I do not look at the ingredients, question whether it is good for me, or worry that I will have an adverse reaction. My digestive tract is long and vigorous. It rapidly dissolves anything I shove through it. I feel my intestines palpitating as my meals slog through each layer, reaching an end before begging for more to feed on.
While I spend so much time thinking about what brings me happiness, I spend so little time understanding anything about those things. All I know is that the most important quality in things is the extent to which I am attracted to or repelled by them. When I like something a lot, I laud its benefits. When I have disdain, I sharply declare my dissenting opinions. But what if things can be thought of outside of this narrow binary? What if things have meaning that extends far beyond their apparent utilitarian purpose? Why does something either have to be assigned worthy or unworthy to have moral consideration?
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